Born to Strange Sights
by AddioKira
Summary: Eliza Moon has returned to Iris Academy for her sophomore year; a year of new friends, new teachers - and new problems. Her husband is now living in the UK, and plans to return only for their divorce. But when Eliza is implicated in a devastating attack upon Iris Academy, Hieronymous Grabiner may be the only one who can save her. A sequel to The Fall of the House of Grabiner.
1. Chapter 1

On the first day of school, I open my eyes to an index card stuck to the ceiling with one word printed on it in block capital letters: "OXFORD."

I lay staring at it in the growing, greenish light of dawn that wafts through the curtains of the room I share with Ellen and Virginia in Horse Hall. It's a new room, different from the one we'd shared last year, and we'd been surprised when we'd arrived yesterday upon discovering that two of the beds are bunked one atop the other. Ellen and I had quickly agreed to let Virginia have the free bed - she rolls and talks in her sleep - and Ellen had asked for the lower bunk, leaving the top to me.

I had initially thought that it would be fun to sleep in a top bunk, but the novelty wore off after about ten minutes of tossing and turning in it. I've always had trouble sleeping in unfamiliar spaces, and although I'd spent an entire year at Iris Academy already, this new room proved to be no exception. I'd lain awake for most of the night, listening to my roommates breathe (well, in Virginia's case, snore), and going over and over what I've started to call my "plan of attack."

I start it over again now, watching as the light slowly begins to brighten, illuminating the card I'd stuck to my ceiling yesterday so that it would be the first thing I see when I go to bed, and the first thing I see when I wake up.

_First I'll talk to Professor Potsdam_, I think. And I'll ask about applications. _Like when I have to apply, and what I have to say. And whether there's a test._

Thinking about a potential admissions test to Oxford University gives me an uncomfortable sensation, as though I'm prodding a sore tooth. I'd managed to perform well in all my exams at Iris Academy, but then, Iris Academy doesn't have a grading system - and isn't the magical college attached to one of the most prestigious universities in the world.

_Well never mind. Maybe it'll just be essays. Professor Potsdam will know, anyway, she might even have had students from Iris get into Oxford before; she'll know what I'll have to do. And then I'll ask her about the grades I'll need to have to get in. I wonder if it's okay that Iris doesn't have grades?_

I shift, tossing to my left side, bunching my pillow under my chin. This gets uncomfortable after a minute so I roll to my back again to stare at the card.

It's not alone up there on the ceiling. Surrounding the card are magazine pictures of trees, of mountains, a lizard, a crab. I reach my hand up, and the ceiling is just near enough that I can graze my fingernail along my favorite picture, one that shows a forest of trees lining a craggy hillside.

_They really are shaped like giant umbrellas_, I think. The trees - dragon's blood trees - just serve as another reminder of why I want to go to college in England, even though they're half a world away from London, on an island in the Indian Ocean.

It had been over the summer, just a little less than a month ago, when I'd spent a week and a half at a country house in Northumberland, on the English-Scottish border, and my husband had told me he'd always wanted to visit the island of Socotra.

_Future ex-husband_, I remind myself grimly, and have to keep from heaving a sigh for fear of waking my roommates. It had been a strange week in England, but then it's been a strange marriage, one only entered into to keep my soul from being devoured by a manus who was beholden to my husband's - Hieronymous Grabiner's - family. I'd spent nearly a full semester at school being married to one of my professors, but the oddest incident I'd encountered had been that week during the summer. I'd been summoned to England by my headmistress, Professor Potsdam, ostensibly for the purposes of visiting my father-in-law, Aloysius Grabiner - the 16th Viscount Montague. As it turned out, Lord Montague had been planning on killing Hieronymous and taking his body to live another lifetime, and using me to create a child for him to repeat the cycle when it was old enough.

Between my deciding to offer my body up in exchange for Hieronymous's, and Professor Potsdam's entrance at the very last moment, we'd managed to have Lord Montague's spell backfire on him, leaving nothing more than an unpleasant stain on one wall. But Hieronymous had been furious that Professor Potsdam had intended to have me sacrifice myself all along, and quit his job at Iris Academy. He'd stayed in England to take over his father's titles and estate, and although he said I might stay in London to go to school there, in the end we'd both agreed that it would be better for me to go back to America, and Iris Academy.

But I'd promised him, and myself, that it wouldn't be forever, and that I'd go back to England to study magical history someday - not just for him, but for the friend I'd made over my week in his house, Mrs. Craft. She was an octogenarian history teacher who'd been murdered by the late Lord Montague so that he could use her latent magic to take over his son's' body. But most of all, I'd made the promise to myself, feeling that I'd finally figured out just what I want to do with my magical abilities.

I'd felt confident then that I could get into Saint Amphibalus's - Oxford's magical college - but I don't feel quite so confident now that I'm faced with having to take the concrete steps I'll need to find out what it takes to apply. I still have three years of magical high school before I go to college. And even sooner than that - this January, in fact - I'm getting divorced.

The thought makes my stomach squidge, and I flop over onto my right side, facing the wall. I ought to be grateful to be granted an easy divorce. It's not an enviable position, being forced into marriage at sixteen, even if it's only for a year and a day, and even if it's with a husband who has repeatedly refused to take advantage of me.

_He even had my permission that once, and he still said no, you're too young_, I think. It was honorable, gentlemanly, non-pervy of him, but I still feel disappointed about it. _Maybe I'm a little bit in love with him?_ The thought doesn't provide me with much comfort. I've never been in love - I don't think, anyway - and I have no idea how to tell when "in love" might actually happen to someone. Even with all the romantic books I've read - _Pride and Prejudice_, _Rebecca_, _The Age of Innocence_, _Wuthering Heights_, and especially _Jane Eyre_, my favorite, love always seems to just happen to people. There's no litmus test to determine whether the feelings you feel for someone are love, a crush, or somewhere in between.

I thought I'd been in love once, when I was in the eighth grade. There was a boy in my class with startling green-yellow eyes, the only person in our grade who'd read more books than me. He'd even read Herman Hesse, a fact I'd found extremely alluring. But he'd never treated me as more than an acquaintance, despite all my attempts to draw him into more intimate conversation. At the end of the year he'd gone off to a magnet high school, while I'd been shuttled to the regular public school. I hadn't bothered to apply to the magnet, because by that time I'd known that I'd be going to magic school once I'd turned sixteen. And after a month of the boy being out of my sights from day to day, I'd stopped thinking about him so much - and then at all. And I'd given up my attempts to read _Steppenwolf_ without so much as a pang of guilt.

But this time, it feels different. This time, my husband and I have voluntarily put an ocean between us, and I haven't stopped thinking about him for what feels like every minute of every hour of every day.

_I wonder how he's doing_. There are five hours' time difference - I think - between him in London and me in Vermont. I'd gotten only one letter, the week before I'd come back to school, that said he'd settled into his house in London for the time being, and to please use that address when writing. I'd dashed off a short letter in response, saying I'd be in school starting September fifth. I haven't gotten another response, but then, I'll probably have to wait until Saturday when it's my job to deliver the mail at five in the morning. It's a long time to wait. I'm eager to know how Hieronymous is settling into his new life as a viscount, and the only aristocratic magical citizen in the United Kingdom, or so I've been led to understand. He's rejected a Parliamentary position, which he intimated might give him some trouble with his country's magical council, considering he would have been the magical community's only representative in the House of Lords.

I hope they - the council, whatever that might be - leave him alone, though the question remains, leave him alone to do what? He'd mentioned to me that he'd been considering setting up a magical school in Newcastle, but I'm sure he hasn't even had the time to start on the kind of work that would be required for such an immense project. And part of me has the rather nagging sensation that, despite the fact that Hieronymous had spent years at Iris Academy as a teacher, he isn't exactly suited to the work. It isn't that he's bad at the job, I reflect, it's only that teaching hadn't seemed to make him very happy. However, I'm hard pressed to think of any sort of career - even that of lounging about and living off of his estate - that would result in Hieronymous being completely content.

_I wonder what would happen if I taught there too?_ I wonder, and not for the first time. It's a pleasant little fantasy - that Hieronymous and I don't get divorced after all, but remain married while I pursue my degree at Oxford. He opens up his school, and I go up to Newcastle after getting my degree, and we teach there together, and _maybe_….

But the fantasy dissolves in my head almost as soon as it's begun. There isn't any way that I can think of to convince Hieronymous that we ought to stay married while I'm still in high school, and anyway, it'll be years and years yet before I earn my college degree. No matter how many permutations I consider, the entire scenario is entirely unrealistic. I just have to hope that wherever our future paths lead us, it will be together somehow, even if I can't say just how.

My eyes stray back to my index card. Oxford.

_First I'll talk to Professor Potsdam, I think. And I'll ask about applications. Like when I have to apply, and what I have to say._

And that's when Ellen's alarm clock goes off.

I feel her shift in the bed under me - the bunk bed is a little rickety - and smack her hand down on the clock. But she isn't hitting snooze - she sits up, stretches, and stands.

I immediately fast forward to the middle of my "plan of attack" - _look at the smartest students in school, and act like them_. The two smartest students in school, in my opinion, are my roommate Ellen, and my student council-mate Minnie. So, despite the fact that I'm desperately tired, I get up and climb down the slatted side of the bunk beds.

"Morning," Ellen says, yawning. "You don't have to get up, I just wanted an early start today."

"Oh, yeah. Me too," I say, not entirely convincingly. "What have you got today?"

"Blue," she says. "You?"

"Same." I'd eagerly searched our available schedules yesterday to determine whether our courses had been expanded this year, but found that we had the same five choices per day, between red, blue, green, black and white magic. No history, no literature, and definitely no science. So I'd dithered over the five courses, but in the end, picked the course that had turned out to become my favorite last year.

_And besides_, I think, _I might as well get used to_ him _not teaching as fast as I can_.

Moving quietly, so as not to wake Virginia, Ellen and I gather our things and make our way to the bathroom down the hall. It's early enough that it's not crowded with fellow students getting ready for the day. Only one girl - Pastel, Minnie Cochran's roommate - is standing before a mirror drying her hair with a breeze spell, twisting the pale pink strands around her fingers so they curl. The tips of her diaphanous wings ripple slightly in the gusts of air.

"Morning," says Ellen to Pastel, who murmurs something noncommittal back. But when Pastel sees me walking by in the mirror, she becomes much more lively.

"E_li_za!" she says, not taking her eyes off the mirror, but looking at my reflection. "I heard your husband's not teaching this year - is that right?"

"Yeah," I say, not bothering to wish her a good morning, and trying to hurry past to the shower. But Pastel isn't letting me escape so easily. She finally steps away from the mirror and into my path, blocking it.

"Shouldn't you be over in Butterfly?" I ask. It's a little odd to be seeing Pastel in the Horse Hall bathroom.

"Too crowded," she sniffs. "_Freshmen_ took all the mirrors. I figured none of the Horse Hall girls'd be up yet - no _offense_, but looking nice for the first day of school isn't exactly a Horse Hall priority?"

"None taken," I say, in a chilly tone of voice that implies the opposite, but that Pastel completely ignores.

"So what happened with Grabby?" Pastel asks. "Are you divorced or what?"

"Nothing _happened_, just his dad died, so he had to move back to England," I say, feeding Pastel the same line I'd fed to Ellen and Virginia when we'd arrived at school yesterday.

Once again, I'd arrived at Iris later than fellow roommates, largely due to the fact that Ellen had apparently ridden up with the Dansons, with whom she'd been staying for the month of August as a break from her summer studying at Iris. Both Ellen and Virginia had greeted me enthusiastically, with stories about the fun Ellen had had in Massachusetts. I'd listened, forcing myself to keep a smile, but I couldn't help being a little jealous - after all, I hadn't been invited, and it's not exactly easy to listen to tales of your two best friends having fun without you.

When Ellen had wound down from recounting berry picking expeditions, fishing trips and picnics in the local park, I'd said "sounds like fun."

Ellen must have noticed the slightly strained tone in my voice, because she immediately colored. "We should have a picnic, the three of us - maybe in the courtyard, before it gets cold! What do you think, Virginia?"

Virginia had turned from where she'd been unpacking a full extra suitcase of snacks, and gave me an unreadable look. "Sure," she'd said, "long as Eliza's not going to spend all her weekends with Grabby again this year."

"O-oh," I'd stuttered in surprise. "Well - I mean - he's not actually - he's not teaching this year."

"What?" Ellen had said, eyes wide, and Virginia had dropped a tube of cookies to stare at me in shock.

"His dad died," I'd explained sheepishly, "so he moved back to England to, like, take care of stuff."

"What stuff?" Ellen had asked, but she was drowned out by Virginia giving a whoop.

"No more Grabby!" Virginia exclaimed. "Sweet!" I had pretended to laugh at Virginia's glee, and had pretended not to have heard Ellen's question. After that - to my relief - the conversation had moved on.

Through my sleepless night, I'd thought about confiding to Ellen and Virginia the events of my strange week over the summer, but in the end I had decided that the entire series of events had been too personal for me to relate to any of my fellow students. And besides, it's possible that even if I had just told my roommates, one of them might have let the story slip - not out of malice, but from a momentary lapse. That's how the story of my marriage got out in the first place, though the culprit had been Minnie rather than Ellen or Virginia. Still, the consequences of that slip had been so dire for me that I now think twice - no, more than twice, multiple times - about telling anyone something I want kept secret from the school at large. And considering that Pastel had been an integral part of the secret getting out, there's no way I'm telling her anything more than the most basic facts.

"His dad dying doesn't sound like nothing," says Pastel, but her interest is waning since the answer to her question wasn't some choice piece of gossip. Her eyes stray back to the mirror.

I shrug. "That's all I know about it," I lie.

"Well, I hope the new teacher's at least good looking," says Pastel, stepping back to finish her hair, and leaving me to dash to the shower stall next to the one in which Ellen has entered and drawn the curtain. By the time I finish washing and drying myself off, Pastel is gone, but a queue of girls has formed for the showers. I hurry back to my room to finish getting ready.

Once I'm finished and dressed in my uniform, and tucking my new_ Intermediate Blue Magic_ textbook into my bag, Ellen has already parked herself at her desk, and is reviewing a section of her own textbook.

"I read the first ten chapters over the summer," she says, frowning, "I hope that's enough for whoever's taking over."

Just great - I'm already off to a bad start, not having read even a single chapter of our textbook yet. "It might be Professor Potsdam," I suggest. Professor Potsdam is a pretty lenient teacher, who always allows her students to ask for help and re-do assignments - except for exams. Professor Grabiner, on the other hand, had been extremely strict and had no patience for excuses about who had or hadn't read what part of a given assignment.

"Maybe," says Ellen, "but she teaches sophomore white, green and black too - it seems like a lot of work to have to take over all five classes at once for both years."

"I guess," I agree. It's no good speculating about it, anyway. Whatever new teacher we have, we'll have to get used to his, her or es teaching style soon enough. I wait for Ellen to pack her things.

"Should we wake up Virginia?" I ask, glancing at our roommate, who's still sound asleep in bed.

"I think she's taking gym today," says Ellen. Figures - gym is Virginia's favorite class, particularly since it isn't strictly scheduled, allowing for a chance to sleep in. "Now that William's graduated," Ellen says, "she said she gets to slack off a little this year."

"Okay," I say, resigned. "I guess we should go."

Ellen and I make our way first to the cafeteria, where I'm too nervous to eat anything. I suck down a cup of coffee, and then head down the hall to the row of classrooms. We enter the one that had once been Professor Grabiner's. It's been stripped of his crammed bookshelf, and the desk is empty of his inkpot collection. It all looks depressingly clean, devoid of my husband's prickly personality. A number of students have already taken their places, so Ellen and I are forced to sit in the front of the room. As we pass the second row, Minnie Cochran - sitting next to Pastel - gives me a quick wave. I wave back, and give her a small smile. I need to track her down later, to talk to her about our fundraising plan for next week's freshman initiation.

Once Ellen and I settle into our desks, Ellen takes out her book and begins reviewing chapters, so I do the same. I start at the beginning of the book, but get a little lost before I reach the end of the first paragraph.

_Blue magic_, it says,_the magic of transformation and change, of transmogrification and transmutation. In this Intermediate text, you will continue your instruction in the art of transforming physical objects, and transmogrifying spells of other colors in order to adjust their effect. Special care should be taken to ensure that each nuance of every particular spell is..._

Uch. Boring. I hope our actual instruction turns out to be a little more interesting than this. I glance up at the clock on the wall - it's a minute past nine, when class is supposed to begin. No instructor has entered the classroom yet, and I begin to wonder whether we're going to have a class after all. I turn back to my book.

_...properly categorized and accounted for, leaving nothing to chance. The delicate symbiosis of each particular spell has its own..._

"Good morning, students," says a low voice from the back or the room, and all of us turn in our desks to view the speaker. I start, and then stare, only realizing after what feels like a full minute that my mouth is hanging open. But then, I'm not the only one - all of the other students are also gawking at the figure who's just entered the room.

It's a man - or at least, a person who gives the appearance of being a man - who is almost, but not quite, exactly the opposite of Hieronymous Grabiner.

He's as tall as Professor Grabiner is - possibly taller. And he's thin. But there, the similarities end. Professor Grabiner is not exactly the sort of person that most people would consider handsome, what with his shaggy black hair, hawk nose, and hooded eyes. This man is not just handsome, he's - well, he's beautiful. He has dark, bronze skin and a head of silvery-white hair that might or might not be due to age. It's impossible to tell how old he is, given the serene expression on his unlined, even features - again, almost the opposite of the constantly irritated expression that Professor Grabiner had displayed in his time at Iris. As the man approaches the front of the room I can see that his eyes are a startlingly deep shade of indigo.

As he passes the rows of students, everyone's head swivels to follow him to the front of the room. Most of the girls - and the guys - are looking very dreamy, and Pastel is practically salivating onto her desk. The new instructor takes his place before the blackboard, right in front of Ellen and me.

"I am Professor Terrec," he says, "and I will be instructing you in the ways of blue magic today." He doesn't have an accent exactly, but there's something about the way he pronounces the words that doesn't quite seem American - just a slight lilt that I can't quite place. "I understand you are the sophomore class?" He lifts the phrase at the end, but it isn't exactly a question. "Then, please, who can tell me how the magic of transformation is used to effect travel between physical spaces, a process colloquially known as teleportation?"

The air next to me is displaced as Ellen shoots her hand into the hair. I look back and see Minnie has raised her hand too.

"Yes?" Professor Terrec says, taking a small book from one pocket and leafing through it. "Miss... Middleton?"

"Blue magic is not only used to shift and transform physical objects," says Ellen, "but planes of space, allowing physical objects to travel from one plane to another almost instantaneously, so long as those planes in space are relatively close together. And on a molecular level -"

"On a what?" asks Professor Terrec, very quietly, but it's enough to send Ellen stammering. And no wonder - Ellen's answer was sounding very, well, _science-y_.

"Uh - I just meant -" starts Ellen, but Professor Terrec waves her off.

"Your answer was correct, Miss Middleton, thank you. Now who can tell me why blue magic is most effective when paired with black magic as compared to other colors of magic?"

This is an easy one, so although it's against my instinct, I raise my hand. _ Look at the smartest kids in school, and act like them_, I remind myself. I hold my breath, waiting for Professor Terrec to choose.

His indigo eyes fall on me, then, and he says "Miss..." He flips through his book, then pauses, his serene expression falling into a frown. "Lady Montague?" he says. He glances back up to me, distaste creeping onto his features.

I start, the answer I was about to give stopping in my throat, choking me. Lady Montague is technically my title now that my husband is a viscount, but I hadn't thought that anyone at school would even think to call me by it. There's only one person who knows, and who'd be flip enough to insert it in the school register - Professor Potsdam. I grit my teeth as someone behind me snickers.

"It's a mistake," I say, my voice cracking. "I'm just Eliza. Moon." It's a struggle not to drop my eyes, but with a supreme effort, I keep them raised.

"This is not your title?" Professor Terrec asks, a bit of fuzziness in the "r" of "your." Another snicker, louder this time. What do I say? Yes, it's my title, and I don't want to lie, but I don't want anyone calling me Lady Montague either.

"Just Eliza Moon, please," is what I finally say, and my voice drops to a whisper at the end of it. I can't keep my eyes up any longer either; I stare at my open book instead.

"Then," says Professor Terrec, "Miss..." He pauses, and I freeze. "Cochran?"

Minnie rattles off the answer to Professor Terrec's earlier question, and with consternation, I hear her say, basically, what I would have, if I'd had the chance to answer.

"Because both blue and black magic are the most effective types of magic to use on physical objects," says Minnie, "their compatibility is enhanced."

She says it more elegantly than I would have, but I'm still furious and dismayed that I hadn't been given the chance to answer. _ I would have gotten it right_, I think, over and over as class continues. _I would have gotten it right if he hadn't - if he'd let me-_

I barely hear another word of whatever lecture Professor Terrec gives on blue magic, so consumed am I with anger and embarrassment. When he releases class for lunch, I'm the first to shove my book into my bag and stalk up the aisle to the door. But I pause once, unable to help myself, and look back, to see Professor Terrec staring after me, looking thoughtful and - unless I'm imagining it - still with an expression of distaste.

_Great_, I think, _my first day of school and already the new professor hates me_. And then another thought, unbidden, but no less upsetting for that - _I'd better not end up married to _him_, too_.


	2. Chapter 2

"Wait up!" puffs Ellen, behind me. I'm not too much taller than she is, but I am faster, and for a moment I consider pretending I don't hear her and charging down the hall. In the end, that strikes me as being too mean. So I stop, and let her catch up before continuing toward the cafeteria.

"What was that?" Ellen asks as we round a hallway corner.

"Just a mistake," I say, definitely not in the mood to explain my name change in the school roster.

"It's just," Ellen says, "I thought you'd at least be - you know - Mrs. Grabiner, so why'd he call you 'Lady?'"

As we enter the cafeteria, Ellen turns her eyes up at me, wide and pensive - and, I think, a little worried.

_I don't want to do this_, I think, but I don't want to blow off Ellen, either.

"Okay, well," I start, as we pick up trays and enter the lunch line, "you know how I said Hier- Professor Grabiner's dad died over the summer?"

"Yeah," responds Ellen, serving herself some stewed swiss chard.

"Well, turns out his dad was... kind of a big deal? Over there, I mean." I keep my voice as low as I can, and shuffle down the line slowly so no one can overhear.

But the next thing I know, someone slaps their hand on my shoulder and says "what's a big deal?"

I tense, but immediately relax upon recognizing the voice - it's just Virginia, who's bypassed the vegetable part of the line and is serving herself a double helping of lasagna.

"Her father-in-law," says Ellen, _sotto voce_.

"I thought he was dead or something," says Virginia.

"Well yeah," I say. "That's kind of the point. Now Professor Grabiner's the big deal, I guess."

"So he's a Lord? A noble or something?" asks Ellen, taking a dessert cup - a disappointing one today, green Jell-o with something that definitely isn't whipped cream on top. Still, dessert is dessert, so I take one too.

"He said 'peer,' but I don't really know if there's a difference," I reply.

"I think it means the title is hereditary," says Ellen, stepping toward a table where Donald, Logan and Luke have just set down their trays.

"We are _not_ sitting with jerkface," says Virginia. "Don't you remember what he did to me last lunch at home?"

Ellen sighs. "It was just a prank," she says.

"It wasn't _just_ a prank," Virginia retorts. She turns to me. "I asked mom to make my favorite dessert - dirt cake, you know, where you make the cake out of ground up Oreos so it looks like dirt, and layer it with whipped cream and gummy worms and stuff?"

The concept doesn't sound at all appetizing to me, but I just nod and let Virginia continue.

"Well she made it, but snot stallion over there decided it would be hi_lar_ious to switch it with a cake made from _actual_ dirt." Virginia scowls, but when I glance at Ellen, I see that Ellen is going red with the effort to keep from laughing.

"She ate a really big bite," Ellen manages to squeak.

"That's terrible!" I say, but it's an effort to keep the corners of my mouth from turning up.

Virginia rolls her eyes at me, but she's starting to grin, too. "Just for that, you hafta tell us _all_ about your husband, Lord Fancypants. C'mon." She turns to a table at which Minnie, Jacob and Pastel are eating.

"Guys, if we're gonna talk about this, can we at least sit over there?" I ask, jerking my head to an empty table in the corner. Well, it's nearly empty - Suki Sato is sitting at one end of it, deconstructing her lasagna, eating the filling, and laying the noodles in a crisscrossing pattern across her plate. She seems to have embroidered a large dragon on the front of her school uniform, and I wonder how long it'll be until Professor Potsdam pounces on her and makes her change it back. It'll be too bad - the dragon is actually pretty neat-looking, with shimmering green and gold scales.

"Yeah," agrees Ellen. "Come on, Virginia." We sit at the opposite end of the table from Suki.

"So what's his title, then?" asks Ellen, once we've settled.

"Seventeenth Viscount Montague," I rattle.

"What's a viscount?" asks Virginia.

"Between an earl and a baron. I think," answers Ellen. "Is he in _Debrett's_?"

I have no idea what that is, so I just stare at Ellen.

"It's a list of the peers in England," she explains. "We could look him up. I _wish_ we had internet here," she huffs, stabbing a piece of chard with her fork. "I bet there's a list online somewhere. Virginia, do you know if they list magical peers?"

"Who cares?" asks Virginia. "What I wanna know is, can he set me up with Prince Harry?"

I screw up my face at her. "You like Prince Harry?"

"Not really," she responds, "but William's already taken, so Harry's my last chance to become a princess, right?"

"I didn't think you were the princess type," I say. "That seems more like Pastel's thing."

"You don't have to be a girly girl to want to be a princess," retorts Virginia. "Princesses get servants to pick up after them, _and_ they get to go on adventures. Prince Harry gets to fly _helicopters_! I bet he'd teach me how!"

"Don't count your helicopters before they land," says Ellen. "Anyway, I hear Prince Harry prefers blondes." She pats her buttery-blonde hair in a smug way, and Virginia sticks her tongue - dyed green from the Jell-o, which she'd eaten first - out at Ellen.

"Stop fighting - I don't think he knows Prince Harry," I say, grinning.

"So what's he going to do in England? Not Prince Harry - Professor Grabiner," says Ellen. "Is he going to be in Parliament? Or on the council?"

"Not Parliament - I don't know about the council though. I mean, what is the council, really?" I know that the council is a magical authority, but I don't know much else about it. The only person who's ever mentioned the council to me in any kind of detail was Hieronymous, and even then, he didn't elaborate on what exactly the council does.

"You don't know?" asks Virginia, incredulous.

"They're magical legislators," interrupts Ellen. "They set the rules for the magical community to follow, and they punish those who break them."

"So they're the legislature and judiciary?" I ask. "What happened to checks and balances?"

"Well, since we're such a small subset of the population, it's not too formal," said Ellen. "They're not even elected, really, just as long as every set region has a representative. And it's not just the US, every country has some kind of council, though they don't all operate the same way."

"You really didn't know that?" asks Virginia.

I shrug. "I knew they set rules, but I haven't heard much more than that. How did you know about it, Ellen?"

"I read a book about it over the summer, but I had to get it by inter-library loan - there's nothing on the subject at the school library," she responds.

"See Jacob?" asks Virginia, pointing to his table. "One of his dads just got appointed to the council. _Very_ big deal. And he's been letting us know about it pretty much constantly, the whole summer." Suddenly, she grins. "He'll be _sick_ when I tell him that your husband's-"

"Don't you dare!" I say. "Anyway, I don't know if he's going to join the UK's council. I'll ask him, maybe." I probably won't - Hieronymous isn't big on interrogations.

"Are you going to see him at all?" asks Ellen.

"Not 'til January," I reply. "And that's when we're getting divorced, so it won't really matter anyway." The thought of my pending divorce is depressing - and not just because it's kind of ignominious to be a divorcée before the age of eighteen. Although, I remind myself, he had asked me to dinner afterwards, and that's something to look forward to - even if he'd adamantly insisted that it was _not_ a date.

"Good riddance," says Virginia. "No offense, but the whole thing's a little creepy." Virginia hadn't ever approved of my crush on Hieronymous, husband or no. So I hadn't told her - or Ellen - about the fact that we'd kissed while skipping the May Day ball.

"Did you see him over the summer?" asks Ellen.

_Now why would she ask that?_ I wonder. I glance from her to Virginia. There's no way I could bring myself to admit that I had seen him in England - that would raise too many questions that I don't want to answer. So instead, I lie.

"Nah. He was here, most of it, and then he had to go to England. He did send me some letters, though."

"_Love_ letters?" asks Virginia with a cackle. I glare at her, but soon start laughing myself.

"You gonna eat that?" asks Virginia, pointing at my Jell-o cup. The not-whipped cream topping is looking melty and limp, and not at all tempting.

I push the dessert toward her. "Take it."

"You didn't eat any vegetables," chides Ellen.

"I don't like chard," says Virginia.

"You still need to eat greens," replies Ellen.

"Not if I don't like them!"

"You liked the lasagna fine," says Ellen.

"So?" says Virginia. "I like lasagna."

"Well it was _spinach_ lasagna," says Ellen with a smirk.

"Blech!" says Virginia, and I laugh.

"So you only like greens when you don't know they're there?" I ask.

"I guess," says Virginia, but then she perks up. "That means I _did_ eat my vegetables, so there!"

"It doesn't count if they're smothered in cheese and tomato sauce!" protests Ellen, but Virginia has already crammed half the Jell-o into her mouth, ending any further argument.

The bell rings then, so we all stand to empty our trays.

"Back to class," I sigh. "Can we sit in the back this time?"

"It wasn't that bad," says Ellen. "Maybe Professor Terrec was just surprised by your title."

"So then why didn't he let me answer the question?" I ask. "He just swept right over me like I was some kind of bug."

"Who knows," says Ellen, noncommittally.

"Well _I_ know I'm going to see Professor Potsdam to get my name changed in the school roster," I grumble. "I'm not having everyone going around calling me-"

"See you in class, _Lady Montague_," says Raven Darkstar from Snake Hall as she sweeps by with one of her drama club friends. They both snicker in a not-very-kind way.

I sputter in indignation. "See?!" I say, turning back to Ellen and Virginia, who are frowning.

"Well, okay, we can sit in the back," says Ellen, "but only if I can hear him well enough to take decent notes."

"Oh, yeah, that reminds me - can I see your notes from this morning? I wasn't really paying attention."

Ellen sighs and rolls her eyes, but she doesn't say no. We make our way to the classroom, leaving Virginia to head to the gym.

I'd worried that we'd be too late to get a seat at the back, but on entering the classroom I see that there's been a general migration towards the front. Some of the students snicker when I enter, but most are already looking rapturous at the prospect of the lovely Professor Terrec's entrance. I'm grateful for his sudden appearance at the front of the class, which eclipses any further thought of mocking my title, instead inspiring a classful of dreamy stares and sighs.

Ellen furiously takes notes on Professor Terrec's lecture, and I race to catch up. By the time class is finished for the afternoon, I'm exhausted with the effort. If this is what it takes to get into Oxford, I can only hope that I can keep up for the next three years.

Ellen and I return to our room to drop off our things, and I immediately leave again to seek out Professor Potsdam.

I find her in her office in the faculty building, and when her secretary shows me in, she rises from her desk with a huge grin.

"Lady Montague!" she squeals. "I'm so glad to see you - I was so pleased when I got your letter saying you'd be coming back. And how are you settling? How is dear Hieronymous? Still angry with me? He won't answer my letters - I hope he isn't burning them."

I have no idea how to respond to Professor Potsdam's questions about my husband - though I wouldn't put it past him to burn her letters. She doesn't give me time to answer as she ushers me into a chair, still prattling.

"I understand you met Yves - Professor Terrec - today, I do hope you like him, he comes very highly recommended, and _such_ a dear to come in on such short notice."

"Actually, that was what I wanted to talk to you about, Professor," I interrupt, knowing that if I don't do it now, she won't stop talking until I leave.

"What's that, lamb? Oh - would you like some tea? I was just about to have some. I'm afraid I became quite addicted during our little trip." She doesn't wait for me to answer, but conjures a full tea service onto her desk.

"About Professor Terrec," I say, a little hesitant. All the fury I'd felt toward Professor Potsdam this morning seems to have dissolved - it's hard to stay angry at someone who's so _nice_ to you all the time. I take the proffered cup and let her pour some tea into it. "He called me 'Lady Montague' this morning."

"Yes?" says Professor Potsdam over her cup.

"Well, that's it, really," I say, a little embarrassed. "I don't want to be called Lady Montague, I just want to be Eliza Moon."

"But that's your title, dear," says Professor Potsdam, patiently, and I feel myself flush. After all, what can I say - 'but the other kids are making fun of me'? How childish.

"B-but-" I stammer, my mind racing to think of something that won't make me sound like a five-year-old. "it was just a little distracting," I finish, lamely. "And Professor Terrec didn't seem to like it."

"Is that right?" asks Professor Potsdam, and her eyes bore into me in a way that makes me uncomfortable. I'm still not entirely sure about Professor Potsdam - although she puts on an aggressively cheerful demeanor, and has saved me from nasty creatures set on killing me twice now, she's also the one who put me in the path of those nasty creatures in the first place. It was all for the sake of saving my husband from his murderous father, for which I should be grateful - but all the same, it feels an awful lot like being used.

Still, I remind myself, now that my husband is safe from his father, there's no reason for her to put me in danger any more. And part of the reason I'd decided to come back was to learn from Professor Potsdam so I can make up my own mind about her. So for now, I might as well play the game her way.

"Yes, that's right," I say, trying to put some steel into my voice. "So I'd appreciate it if you'd make the change."

"Oh, well, if you feel you must," says Professor Potsdam, all cheer and verve once again. I have to wonder if I've just won, or if I've just given something away. Oh well - at least she's agreed to the name change. And if I'm ahead by that much, I might as well ask her something else.

"I wanted to ask you another question," I blurt before I can change my mind.

"Certainly dear, what is it?" Professor Potsdam asks with a blinding, pink-lipsticked smile.

"How do you get into Oxford?" I ask, so fast that I slur my words into each other, then have to pause. "I - I mean how do _I_ get in? To Saint Amphibalus's?"

Professor Potsdam stares at me as though I'd just asked her how to get to the moon without supplemental oxygen. My heart sinks into my stomach. "Is there a test?"

"Well dear, not exactly," says Professor Potsdam. "Oxford does have an extremely rigorous admissions requirement, however. The magical college relies on individual recommendations for students, and there is an interview process... applicants liken it to defending a doctoral thesis."

I don't really know what that means, but it doesn't sound good. "Okay," I say, "So will you recommend me, maybe?" I can't help the uncertainty that creeps into my voice at this last word, but part of me is a little sickened, hearing it. What happened to the confidence I'd felt when I'd told Hieronymous that I'd definitely get in?

"Of course, dear!" says Professor Potsdam, and she gives me another huge grin. My mood lifts, but only briefly, because then she says "but it isn't that simple."

"What do you mean?" I ask. She gives me a sympathetic smile.

"The recommendation has to be unanimous - from every teacher in the student's school," she says, and my stomach drops. Every teacher in the school means Professor Terrec - who's already decided that I'm not worth enough to even allow me to answer a question in class.

"Oh," is all I can manage.

"Yes, recommendations need to be submitted by the middle of your junior year," Professor Potsdam says, sipping at her teacup with relish. "But I'm sure you'll have no trouble, gosling!"

Her cheeriness begins to have the opposite effect on me - I feel more despondent than ever. But there's no use in arguing - or moping. If that's what it takes to get into Oxford, that's what I'm going to do. _I can do it_, I tell myself. But not all of me believes it - not all the way.

"Okay," I say, "thanks, Professor." And I get up, leaving my untouched cup of tea on Professor Potsdam's desk.

"I'll see you in class tomorrow, kit!" says Professor Potsdam with a wave. She's right - I have white magic tomorrow, and if I want to be sure of Professor Potsdam's Oxford recommendation, I'd better pay attention.


	3. Chapter 3

As I'm walking down the corridor back to Horse Hall, I begin to make adjustments to my "plan of attack." It's a good thing there isn't an exam, I decide, but the interview process sounds almost as bad. I wonder what kind of questions they ask - and then realize that it's something I should have asked Professor Potsdam before I'd walked out of her office. I start cursing my own stupidity, but then stop. I can ask Professor Potsdam later - and after all, it isn't as though the interview is tomorrow. I have to figure out the unanimous teacher recommendations first, and that might be the hardest part.

I'm trying to think of ways to get Professor Terrec to like me as I cross the courtyard on my way to the student halls. So far, I can't think of anything short of trying to suck up to him in class, the thought of which immediately fills me with repugnance. For a moment, I pause, wondering why I should have such a strong reaction.

_Well I just don't_ like _him_, I decide, a little self-righteously. Immediately a more rebellious section of my brain pipes up - _but then I didn't like Professor Grabiner when I first met him either_, and I tell me to shut up.

I enter the nearest door of the student residence hall, deciding to walk through Butterfly on my way to Horse. But I haven't gone more than a few feet before I hear a familiar voice, loud and strident, wafting from a nearby open doorway.

"Just _gorgeous_, isn't he? My mother knows him, _actually_, and he's such an improvement over Professor Grab-"

The voice stops as soon as I poke my head into the door frame from which it had sounded. I see Pastel sitting on one of the beds, holding court over a gaggle of younger-looking girls who I don't recognize - freshmen, I guess - who are sitting on the floor in a fawning semi-circle. Also in the room are a few faces I do recognize - Minnie, sitting in her desk chair, Raven from Snake Hall, Jacob, Suki, Ellen and Virginia.

"Oh _hi_, Eliza," says Pastel in a way-too-innocent voice.

"Hey," I say, hoping I sound casual. But I can't resist asking "who's an improvement?"

"Ohhh," says Pastel, "I was just saying how nice Professor Terrec is - my mother knows him, you know?"

"No, I didn't," I say. "You must know him really well then, right?"

Pastel's smile drops, and everyone else turns to look at me. For a moment, no one says anything - long enough for me to wonder why my remark should provoke such pointed silence.

"Professor Terrec seems really nice," says Minnie, a little too loudly. For some reason, this irritates me even more than Pastel's obvious taunt had done. "He's something all right," I snap. "Is he even human? What is he, anyway?"

This question stops the room cold. Raven sucks in her breath, and even Virginia glares at me and hisses "Eliza!"

"What?" I ask Virginia, and when she doesn't answer, I look to the rest of the girls who are staring at me, saucer-eyed. "What?" I repeat, louder.

I hear Pastel clear her throat, and when I turn to her, her smile is back. It's smug - no, it's more than smug, it's _triumphant_.

"That's a little rude, don't you think?" she asks. I look to the others, baffled, but the expressions on their faces show that yes, it's a lot rude, they _do_ think. I can feel myself redden, but it's no good trying to protest that I hadn't meant to be offensive.

"And I don't see why it matters to you, anyway," continues Pastel. "I mean," she says, looking around at the other girls, "you can't screw _all_ the teachers, Eliza."

At that, both Jacob and Raven give huge huffs of laughter, and several of the freshmen start to giggle - although it's clear that they're not exactly sure what it is they're laughing at. Minnie is looking away, Virginia looks embarrassed and Ellen looks stricken, but neither of them says anything. Suki looks out of the window at something that isn't there.

I stand for a moment in the doorway, feeling as though I'd been pinned there, eviscerated and wriggling. I look back at Pastel; her smile is hard and forced, but still somehow triumphant. She stares back at me, as though daring me to try to protest. I don't - I'm too stunned to do anything but turn away, and walk rapidly down the hall. My face feels blazing and my eyes prickle, but I won't be caught crying in the middle of the hallway - I _won't_.

Halfway to Horse Hall, I realize that I don't want to go back to my room. Ellen and Virginia might come back, and I don't want to face anyone who'd been present when Pastel had said - well - when she'd said what she'd said. So I whirl around, mid-stride to walk the opposite way - and nearly smack straight into Minnie, who I hadn't noticed following me down the hall.

Minnie gives a small squeak and jumps back, and we stand there in the hallway, staring at each other for what feels like a full minute. Finally, she drops her eyes and says "um..."

"What?" I snap, making her jump back slightly.

"Oh - it's - I just-" she stammers. I ought to feel bad for making Minnie so jumpy, but I don't - in fact, after being paralyzed by Pastel's comment earlier, I feel a nasty sort of pleasure in doing the same to someone else.

"So," Minnie says, in an overtly friendly way, "how was your summer?"

"Uh," I say, "fine. You?"

"Great!" she says, with more nervousness than enthusiasm. I frown - Minnie hasn't followed me out of her room just to ask me about my summer.

"I heard Professor Grabiner's not coming back this year?" Minnie says, with a cringing sort of smile. "Where's he - I mean, is he okay?"

"He's fine," I say, then go silent. I'm not angry with Minnie for disclosing the secret of my marriage - not any more, anyway - but I'm certainly not going to trust her with any further information about my husband.

After some hemming and hawing, Minnie finally gets out what she wants to say. "I just had a question about the fundraiser for this weekend? For the initiation picnic? You said you'd take care of figuring out what to sell, so..." she trails off, looking sheepish, and suddenly I feel awful for snapping at her.

"Oh, yeah," I say, remembering. Minnie had been e-mailing me all summer with ideas for the fundraiser, but we hadn't ever settled on anything definite. When I'd gotten back from England, I'd had an idea, and so told Minnie I'd bring the materials to school. The initiation fundraiser takes place the first Saturday of school, while most of the freshman are exploring the local mall - and takes advantage of the first allowance received by the rest of the students on Saturday morning.

"You know how we did snack packs last year for the exams?" I continue. "Well, I thought we could do, like, study packs - notepads, pens, pencils, that sort of thing."

Minnie breaks into a smile, her prior nervousness apparently forgotten. "That's a great idea!" she says. "And you've got all that stuff already?"

"Yup," I say. And I do - thanks to my summer job working at a stationer's office. The office had branched out into small gifts during my summer there, which meant they'd put a large overstock of discontinued stationery in storage to make room for their new products. The Weis had been happy to donate the leftover stationery to Iris, asking only that I include their website information so students could order replacements if they wanted to. I'd agreed - it would have been too difficult to explain why Iris Academy didn't have any internet connection. At any rate, I'd brought three boxes of a motley assortment of discontinued notepapers, envelopes, pens and pencils to sell over the weekend. "We're all set. I've sorted the stuff into packs, so we just have to set the booth up on Saturday morning."

"Great!" says Minnie, with some obvious relief, and I have to wonder whether she'd thought I'd flake out on her. "Jacob will help," she continues, flushing a little bit. That brings me down a bit - considering how Jacob had laughed when Pastel had made her comment. Still, it seems that Minnie with Jacob is a lot more reliable than she'd been last year, when she'd been seeing Kyo from Wolf Hall.

"Oh, that'd be great," I reply, but I'm not able to fake enough enthusiasm to keep Minnie from going a bit redder.

"Listen," she says, "Sorry about what Pastel said earlier - Jacob's sorry too."

Somehow I doubt that, and I don't reply.

"Don't mind Pastel too much, okay?" Minnie continues. "She gets a little sensitive about... stuff."

I have no idea what that means, so I just say "oh," and look at the floor.

Minnie seems unwilling to explain further; she just says "well, anyway, we can set up Saturday morning after you finish the mail. In the courtyard - the juniors and seniors'll have booths set up too. There's a warding spell to keep the freshmen away so they don't know what's going on, but most of them are going to be at the mall anyway."

"Okay," I say, my tone desultory.

"So," says Minnie, tapping a toe on the hallway carpet, "do you want to go to dinner?"

"Oh, nah," I say. "I'm not that hungry." There's no way I'm sitting with Minnie and Jacob at dinner, and it's true that I don't feel very hungry just now.

Minnie looks like she's about to say something else, but then stops. "Okay," she says, "see you." And she walks off down the hall. I'm left to plod toward the library by myself.

It's empty, since everyone has probably already headed to the cafeteria for dinner. It feels a little like the time I'd gotten stuck in the library during the pancake dinner last spring - except now there isn't anyone to walk in on me and keep me company, even in a curt, brittle way. I glance over at the rack of magazines, but it doesn't seem as though they've been changed since last year. And anyway, I remind myself, I should be studying, not reading magazines.

So instead, I cross over to the shelf that has the history books. This is the first time I've taken a good look at them since I'd glanced at them on first entering the library last year. They all seem like ancient textbooks - frayed at the corners, and hopelessly out of date. Still, history is history, so I take what looks like a first year book and plop it on a table to start reading.

_Magic_, it reads, _predates recorded history. Yet it has been the driving force behind human development and civilization since the beginning of time_.

Uch. _Boring_. My eyes seem to slide across the words down the page, so I start over again, trying to think the words to myself in Mrs. Craft's voice.

_The emergence of the ancient practice of magic is closely tied with the first interactions of humans with the creatures of the Otherworld. It is thought that the first creatures to pass from the Otherworld into this plane brought with them the esoteric secrets that allowed humans to begin their own foray into the magical arts_.

It doesn't work. Mrs. Craft could tell a story from history and make it sound as though it were the next episode of a television program that you'd been anticipating for the last month. This book is so dry it makes me thirsty. But then, there's no Mrs. Craft to liven up the history classes at Oxford - if I can manage to even get in, that is.

_And how am I supposed to get into Oxford_, I think,_ if I can't even get through the first chapter of one history book?_

That, finally, is the last straw, and before I can even realize what I'm doing, I burst into tears. The entire horrible first day of school seems to wash over me like a wave, and I bend over my book, unable to hold myself upright any longer. And the only thing I can think of is - oddly - not about how I'll never get into Oxford, not the fact that my newest magic professor hates me, or that Professor Potsdam is being obtuse about my title, or even Pastel's nasty comment. All I can think of, over and over again is - _I miss you - I miss you - I miss you_.

It seems to take ages and no time at all for the wave to recede, and for me to cry myself out, sitting there in the corner of the empty library and dripping onto my out of date history textbook. But when I finally stop hitching and sniffling and rub my eyes one final time, I look up to see that the library isn't empty after all. I freeze.

Standing by the magazine rack is a boy who I vaguely recognize as being in my class, and he seems startled at being caught staring at me - nearly as startled as I feel at finding myself being stared at. It's too late for him to pretend not to have seen me, so instead he gives me a crooked smile and pushes a sheaf of black hair back from his forehead.

"Sad book?" he asks.

I wipe my nose on the back of my hand. "Oh. Yeah. Devastating."

The boy considers me for a bit, and I look back. He's not very tall, and has a slim build. The most unique thing about him is his hair, which is an inky blue-black and falls over his face when he slouches, which is what he is currently doing. I try to think of when I've ever talked to him before - I have seen him around, in my classes and during school assemblies but he'd always just been part of the crowd. But as I'm trying to think of whether I might have spoken to him, or found out his name, I realize that the symbol on his uniform belt is a toad.

No wonder I don't recognize him. I'd never had much occasion to speak to anyone from Toad Hall except for Manuel Arias. Though I know a few girls in Snake Hall, most notably Raven and Suki, the only person besides Manuel that I'd met from Toad Hall was Balthasar, Virginia's senior during last year's initiation week. Still, I can't quite connect this boy's face with any of the names on the envelopes and packages I'd delivered to Toad Hall over the past year.

After a minute of both of us just staring at each other and not saying anything, the boy seems to make a decision and walks toward the table at which I'm sitting. He takes the chair opposite me, turns it around and straddles it, resting his arms on the top and his chin on his arms.

"Missed you at dinner," he says.

I'm so taken aback by this, that I can't think of anything to say, and just keep staring at him.

The boy looks down, picking at one of his fingernails. "Everyone was talking about you at lunch."

"Oh..." I say, still unsure how to respond.

He peers back up at me from under his thick, straight eyebrows. "I'm Ahmed, by the way."

"Eliza," I say slowly.

"Yeah, I know who you are," the boy says, which is fair when I think about it - I am class treasurer after all, and that means posters, stickers, getting in front of the class and making speeches. That combined with the story of my marriage means that pretty much everyone in class knows who I am, whether I know them or not. But he has the advantage over me. I'm reasonably familiar with everyone's names, having spent the last year delivering mail to their rooms. However, I can't remember delivering any mail to Toad Hall for anyone named Ahmed.

Then sudden recognition strikes. "Oh!" I say. I have gotten packages for an Ahmed al-Sharif. But then, something's still odd.

"Wait-" I say, "aren't you in Falcon Hall?" He's certainly pretty enough to be in Falcon Hall. Now that he's close up, I can see he has a set of extremely long and sooty eyelashes, and his skin is remarkably clear for adolescence. I'm a little jealous.

Ahmed snorts. "Was."

"Oh," I say back, still unsure what this might mean. "So did you switch out?"

"Kind of," he says, back to picking at his fingernails again. "When you didn't show up for dinner I guess people got bored talking about you, so they started talking about me."

I don't have any idea what he means by this, so I just stay silent.

"So, I thought I'd come in here for some quiet, but there you were, with your sad book. So I figured this is where the losers hang out, right?'

"Yeah, I guess," I say, but I can't help the corners of my mouth twitching up a little bit.

"I thought so," he says. "You're the first person all day who didn't ask first thing _why_ I switched to Toad Hall."

"Well," I say, "you're the first person all day who didn't ask me where's my husband."

"Yep," he says. "Definitely loser headquarters. With our..." he pokes at my book, "devastating history textbooks and Tiger Beats from 1986."

I actually crack a smile at this.

"What does 'eldritch' even mean, anyway?" Ahmed continues.

"It's... a Lovecraft word, I think," I say. "So it either means weird, or tentacle-y."

"So... I have a bright future ahead of me in hentai?" says Ahmed. "My parents will be so proud."

This time, I can't help but laugh, and Ahmed breaks into a smile. I realize that this is what he was going for, and part of me is a little irked at being manipulated - but the other part is happy that someone saw me crying and cared enough to try to cheer me up. Ahmed stacks his fists on the table, and leans over the back of his chair to rest his chin on them. When he does, I notice his ring - silver, with a round blue stone that seems to give off a soft, glowing light from within its depths. He's wearing it on the third finger of his right hand, which makes me feel nostalgic for the ring I'd worn while I'd been in England - a red one, rather than blue, but with the same mysterious glow.

"That's Otherworld, right?" I ask, pointing. Ahmed looks puzzled, but then pleased, and he unfolds his hand to look at the ring.

"I don't know," he says. "You're wildseed too though, right? How can you tell?"

"Well it's all glowy, isn't it?" I say.

"Yeah, kind of," he says.

"I used to have one," I admit, and at this moment, I sort of wished I'd kept it - even if I knew then, and still know now that it wasn't right for me to do. "So, are you married too?"

Ahmed doesn't answer at first, but smiles in a vague sort of way, keeping his eyes on his ring.

"No," he says, "but I think my boyfriend might propose soon."

The way he says it throws me slightly. There's no doubt or hesitation in his voice - he sounds... well, he sounds awfully sure of himself. Awfully grown up.

"Wow," is all I can say. "Well, congratulations in advance."

"Thanks," he says. "Congratulations in retrospect."

And he seems sincere about it - not aggressive, like Professor Potsdam, or reluctant, like Minnie, or calculating like Lord Montague. He doesn't even seem doubtful, creeped out, or eager for gossip, like the rest of my classmates. He just sounds genuinely happy for me, that I'm married, even if it's to a teacher nearly twice my age. And it's weird, but in a way, refreshing.

"Thanks," I say, and I mean it.

I don't know what else to say, but even if I had, I'm interrupted by a cluster of freshmen entering the library.

"Well, I guess this meeting of the Iris Academy Losers Club is adjourned," says Ahmed, standing. "See you in class or something."

"Yeah-" I start, but before I can say anything else, he's gone. The freshmen start clustering around the magazine rack, giggling, so I decide to go as well, stuffing my useless history textbook into the shelf where it had once stood before walking back to my room.

It's still empty, thank goodness, so I'm able to take a notepad and my _Intermediate Blue Magic_ textbook into my upper bunk to work on the essay due next week - a description of the ways in which blue magic affects each other type of magic, with examples. I've finished with red magic and am halfway through black when Ellen and Virginia walk in together.

"-just don't think she would-" Virginia's saying, until they both glance up and see me perched on my bunk. The three of us stare at each other for a minute.

Part of me - a small, mean part that seems to be surfacing a good deal today, considers giving them the cold shoulder and going back to my essay. But the rest of me is sick of being angry at everyone. "Hi," I say, in what I hope is a friendly, forgiving sort of tone.

"Umm... are you okay?" asks Ellen.

"Oh, yeah, fine," I say. "Just doing my blue essay."

Both Ellen and Virginia glance at each other, but neither of them speaks.

None of us say anything much to each other for the rest of the evening, but we all go through the motions of finishing our homework, getting ready, and going to bed.

Before Virginia hits the lights, I have time to stare just one last time of the assortment on my ceiling - the forest, the lizard, the crab, the flowers, the card that reads "Oxford."

_I miss you_, I think, and then the lights go out.


	4. Chapter 4

The rest of the week goes by without much incident. I get through the rest of my classes - white, black, green, red - without attracting attention to myself, but not drawing any distinction either. I even manage to take notes straight through Professor Terrec's red magic class on Friday, but I make sure to sit in the back, and I don't raise my hand. Ellen, for some reason, sits in the front without me, but I figure it's just what she wants to do. Still, I can't bring myself to join her.

I'm so keyed up from anticipating some kind of disaster that I feel a sort of serene happiness when my alarm goes off at five in the morning on Saturday. Just the fact that it's the weekend is enough to give me an incredible sense of relief, even if I do have to wake at dawn.

I slip from my top bunk, trying my best not to make any noise, and dash to the bathroom to wash up before heading to the mail office. The halls are so empty and silent that it's easy to pretend I'm the only one in school, a feeling that's both blissful and lonely.

Once I'm in the office, however, I'm dismayed at the huge pile of envelopes and packages. Not only do I have to distribute the five dollar allowance to each of the sophomore students, but I have to sort through all of the mail and deliver it door to door. It looks as though everyone's parents have sent all the things they've forgotten at home - and that they're mostly heavy things. I sigh, and get to work on sorting out the allowances, trying not to think about how ironic it is that I have to distribute the money to everyone this morning, and then try to earn it all back this afternoon.

Once the allowances are finished, I start sorting the packages, first by hall and then by name. It's going to take several trips to get everything delivered. I start lining everything up, going around the room starting from the corner by the door, and working my way in a spiral and trying to gauge how much I can carry in one go.

I sort Horse Hall last, vaguely aware that I don't feel like being disappointed when I don't get a single letter. I'm sure that my parents are back to being hazy about my existence, and as for my husband - well, I don't even dare hope to receive anything, for fear of being crushed with disappointment. And, as it turns out, I'm right - there isn't even a single envelope with my name on it in the stack. I ignore the galling sting of being forgotten, even though I can taste it in the back of my throat. Instead, I concentrate on sorting the packages, matching names and room numbers, until I get to the last box.

This one is confounding; the paper wrapping has neither a name or address, and I wonder how it got to Iris without one. It sits in the corner by itself, as I squint at it. Finally I sigh and pick it up, thinking maybe it's just upside down. And that's when I see it - when I touch the box, one small letter appears on the paper, on the upper right hand corner of the box.

"E"

I clap the hand that had touched the box to my mouth, huffing half in shock and half in happiness. The letter disappears as soon as my fingertips leave the paper, but there's no mistaking the tiny, precise handwriting. I reach out again, touching the parcel, and the "E" appears in jet ink.

Wasting no more time, I snatch up the box and tear the paper and the padding beneath it, unable to wait to see what my husband has sent me. And when I've torn the last of the padding away, I recognize the book about Nicholas Hawksmoor from the late Lord Montague's magical library - the book I hadn't had time to finish before I'd left England. I hug it to my chest, letting the corners of its cover dig into my clavicle. Even if he doesn't love me, he cared enough to send this, and as long as that's true, I don't care what anyone says to me. None of it matters. None of it.

It's a minute before I come to my senses and remember that I'm here in the mail room for a reason. The faster I finish my job, I decide, the faster I can get back to my book, so I shove my present onto a shelf, and scoop up as many Falcon Hall letters and packages that I can carry. I race down the halls, running - for the first time in what seems like months - headlong down the empty hallways. I count nine trips from the mail room and back, but it seems to be the work of moments to get everyone's allowances, letters, and packages to their doors.

I can barely see anyone's mail, but a few things still catch my attention. Minnie, for instance, receives a large and rather unwieldy potted orchid in a dazzling shade of orange. I have to take a separate trip just for the plant, walking slowly to make sure the delicate stems stay upright and don't snap. The card is pretty obvious - "TO MINNIE, LOVE JACOB" is written in huge, sprawling letters on the envelope. Jacob must be using his dads' money to lavish her with gifts, but I don't feel even the slightest twinge of jealousy. Flowers, as far as I'm concerned, have _nothing_ on books.

As I'm making my Toad Hall run, I also notice that my new friend gets quite a few letters, including one that comes in a blue envelope, the address written in an intricate, scrolling handwriting. The boyfriend most likely, I think, even though it's just a guess - there isn't a return address at the top corner of the envelope. He must be pretty fancy - the paper is thick with an even grain, and feels very expensive under my fingers as I slide it under the door to Ahmed's room.

Finally the last bit of mail is delivered and I race, as fast as I can, down Horse Hall and back to the mail room, not stopping as I enter the door, but straight to the shelf where I'd left the book.

But when I get there, the shelf is empty. I'm going so fast that I have to stop myself by grabbing the bottom edge of the shelf, and I stand for a moment, blinking in disbelief at the empty space. _Did I forget where I'd put my book?_ I wonder, but only for a second. Because I hear something behind me, and whip around.

Professor Terrec is sitting at one of the tables in the corner, with a book - _my book_ - open in front of him. He turns a page, and if I didn't know any better, I would have thought he'd done it... well, ostentatiously. Almost mockingly.

"That's _mine_!" I blurt, without thinking, and Professor Terrec turns his intense, indigo eyes on me.

"Good morning - ah -" he starts, and then tilts his head to one side. "Now what should I call you?"

Everything up to the way he pronounces "you" sounds normal - American, like the standard newscaster accent. But the way he says "you" is drawn out and compressed by his pursed lips, until it sounds exotic, foreign and somehow menacing.

"E -" I start, but then decide that no, I don't want this teacher calling me by my first name. It's too familiar. "Miss Moon," I finish, glaring.

"E," he says. "So, then, this book is yours?" he says, holding up the book to the opening flyleaf. When I'd first started reading the book back at Yeavering Hall, the leaf was pristine. Now, it has a few lines of writing on it.

I have to step closer, and then closer again, to see what the writing says, because the handwriting is so so small. I walk straight to the other side of the table at which Professor Terrec is sitting, and then lean forward to read it.

_E-_

_I think you were reading this?_

_-H_

Even if it's not - well - _romantic_ or anything, I feel myself flush reading the words. Not only had my husband been thinking about me, he'd thought enough to remember what book I'd been reading when he'd last seen me, to realize I hadn't finished it, to remove it from his library and send it to me, and best of all, to actually write me a message on one of its pages, meaning the gift was a permanent one, not just a loan. It's a present, a real present, and the first one he'd given me that I could keep with a clear conscience.

But that dizzyingly happy thought comes crashing down as I register Professor Terrec's stern, disapproving expression next to the book he's holding open. _It doesn't suit his face_, I think. He looks much better, much prettier, with the serene, dreamy expression he'd had when he'd first walked into the classroom on Monday morning.

"Yes," I say, letting the chill I feel inside me enter my voice. "It's mine." I reach to take it, but Professor Terrec pulls it away from my hand with a smooth, unhurried movement.

"Give it back!" I say it in almost a yell, my voice filling the room.

Professor Terrec doesn't react - doesn't even blink. "Give it back... what?" he says, in a calm, even voice.

His calm shakes me, and I'm unable to maintain my rage. I feel myself shrink before his stare. "Please?" I say, uncertain. "Please, it's my book -"

"_Sir_," he corrects me, going very quiet, and with a menace that hadn't been in his voice before.

My eyes drop to the floor, unable to hold his stare. "Please, sir," I say, in a barely audible voice. "May I have my book?"

I wait for his answer, and the silence stretches before me like an ocean.

Finally, Professor Terrec closes the book, and slides it across the table to me. I snatch it up, and clutch it to my chest, terrified that he'll change his mind and demand it back. He doesn't, though, and when I finally gather the courage to glance up, he's still assessing me coolly, his indigo eyes fixed on my face.

"What an educational gift," he says, deadpan. "May I ask who was thoughtful enough to send it?"

I open my mouth, an automatic instinct to give a direct answer to the authority figure who's asking me a question. But there's something about the tone of his voice that makes me hesitate, choking back my voice before I give my answer.

Professor Terrec raises his eyebrows at my reticence. "Should I guess?"

"I don't-" I start, unsure of how to finish the sentence in a way that won't get me into trouble.

Professor Terrec lets out an irritated breath. "Don't waste my intelligence, _Miss_ Moon," he says, "and don't waste my time. I assume that the 'H' refers to your husband, now the seventeenth Lord Montague?"

"I-" I start, wondering how to get out of answering, but then realize that nothing I say is going to convince him that someone else sent the book. "Yes," I answer.

"And why is it," Professor Terrec continues, "that while Lord Montague remains in England, you have returned to Iris Academy?"

The hairs on the back of my neck prickle as I consider what to say. Obviously I'm not telling this strange professor the details of my married life - but why would he even want to know?

"I… just… had to go back to school. That's all," I say. I have to keep from holding my breath as I wait to see whether he'll be satisfied with the answer.

Professor Terrec stares at me in silence, and his eyes narrow almost imperceptibly. But when he finally responds, all he says is "I see," then stands. "You're quite lucky to have a husband so interested in your continuing education, Miss Moon," he adds. "I hope that you will take proper advantage of the opportunity."

He walks out, leaving me standing there, still clutching my book.

I stand still in the mail room for a long time, wondering at the exchange. I ask myself, over and over, why my hackles should be raised over what, on its face, is an innocuous question about my whereabouts versus my husband's. The only thing I can think of is the fact that while everyone else has asked me what my husband is doing in England, Professor Terrec is the only one who'd asked me what _I _was doing _here_.

My thoughts are interrupted by a glance at the clock - it's almost seven-thirty - and nearly time for me to meet Minnie. Instead of pondering Professor Terrec's behavior, I have to dash out the door and back to Horse Hall as fast as I can, keeping my book tight to my chest as I go. When I get back to my room, Virginia's still asleep, but Ellen is apparently up, and somewhere else - maybe getting a shower. I throw my book to the top bunk, open my wardrobe and pull the boxes of stationery out, grunting at their weight, but trying to keep as quiet as possible.

I've just taken the last box out of the wardrobe when there's a knock at the door. I have to jump the boxes to get the door before the knocking wakes Virginia, and when I do, I greet Minnie and Jacob, who are standing just outside the door. Minnie is wearing a blazing orange orchid bloom tucked behind her ear.

"Everything ready?" asks Minnie, and it's clear she's been anxious.

"Shhh!" I hiss, motioning to the still-sleeping Virginia. "Come on." I hoist one of the boxes, leaning backward with the effort - it's pretty heavy.

Minnie motions to take a box, but Jacob stops her with a quick motion. "I've got it, babe," he says, and hefts the two remaining boxes himself. I can tell he's cast a surreptitious spell to lighten both of them, but based on the look Minnie gives him just then, he's as good as lifted a two-ton infant sperm whale in order to return it to its natural habitat or something.

I wish someone was here - Ellen, or even a fully conscious Virginia - for me to roll my eyes at, but since there isn't anyone, I pretend Hieronymous is here to help set up the fundraiser. _ I'd give him a side-eye at that,_ I think, _and he'd twitch his mouth as though he was about to smile - but he wouldn't, he'd just stare straight ahead and pretend he hadn't seen._ This strikes me as so accurate, I have to hide my smile behind my box of notepads as Minnie closes the room door, and we head down the hall toward the courtyard.

Minnie and Jacob have already set up our stand in the courtyard corner, so we set our boxes down beside it, and began scooping out their contents. My mom and I had spent a day watching movies and sorting the stationery into study packs together, making sure every pack had at least a pad, notecards, envelopes, a pen and a pencil. Most of the packs don't match, but we'd made an effort to make sure the colors at least coordinated.

"These are really cute!" squeals Minnie as she extracts a pack with an envelope and notecards that are decorated with pictures of cartoon pandas. Jacob looks over her shoulder at them, and wrinkles his nose.

"They're kinda girly," he says, and Minnie digs him in the ribs with her elbow.

"Just set them up!" says Minnie, who's trying not to smile. Jacob starts stacking packs up on the table. "No," says Minnie, "overlap them so people can see what they are!" She gets up and starts helping Jacob with the packs on the table, leaving me to crouch behind and continue unpacking.

I try to concentrate on what I'm doing, but it's tough when Minnie and Jacob are giggling and playfully pushing at each other on the other side of the table. After a few batches of study packs, neither of them are paying any attention to me, so instead of handing the packets to them, I shove them onto the top of the table and keep unpacking.

When both of them go quiet, I look up, wondering if they'd decided to help out after all. But instead I glance at the pair just in time to watch Jacob re-tucking Minnie's orchid into her hair, and, when the blossom is in place, barely kissing the tip of her nose.

I hurriedly turn my face back down to the box I'm unpacking, feeling as though I'd tried peeking into someone's door, or going through es letters. And underneath that, somewhere in the pit of my stomach, there's the feeling of black, bitter ooze bubbling up from under the surface. _Is it jealousy?_ I wonder. _Am I jealous?_

At first I think that no, of course I can't be jealous. I don't want Jacob or anyone like him, and I don't want the kind of public display he's been putting on. But the one thought I can't shake is the thought that I'm not the kind of girl who inspires boys to try to put flowers in their hair. And although I can tell myself that I don't even want that sort of thing, I still feel a dragging sensation in my chest every time I picture that orange flower in Minnie's chestnut curls.

_Just don't think about it_, I advise myself, but telling me not to think is about as effective as telling me not to breathe. By the time my fingernails scrape the bottom of the last box, I feel a hot, dry sensation behind my eyes; the harbinger of later tears.

There isn't much more time to think, fortunately, as students begin to crowd the courtyard after the vans take a squad of freshmen to the mall. We've only barely finished setting up when our table attracts a sizeable gaggle of students - mostly girls, I have to admit - exclaiming over the cute or pretty designs on the stationery sets. The initial crowd draws more students over, and soon we're doing a brisk business. Minnie handles most of the sales, turning her dazzling smile on every purchaser, while Jacob counts change - not a strenuous job, as our packs are priced at five dollars each. I'm left to make sure the packs are displayed nicely, and to replenish them with reserved stock when the display empties.

The morning wears on, and my attempt to mimic Minnie's smile begins to feel plastered on my face. I've just finished frantically replacing another line of stationery when I see Suki meander across the courtyard toward our table, a dreamy look on her face. As she approaches, I notice that someone has gotten after her about the dragon embroidered on her uniform - it's gone, with only a few green and gold threads dangling from the fabric to show where it had been. She doesn't seem to mind too much. I still feel a bit bad for her hard work being erased like that, though, so before I can think too much about it, I duck under the table and scrabble through the few remaining study packs left in the last box.

There was one pack - one of a very few coordinated packs - that I'd noticed, and immediately marked as a favorite. It's a set of green notecards, pad, envelopes, pen and mechanical pencil colored green, and sporting an adorable, anime-style Godzilla menacing a city. The papers and envelopes all have the Godzilla in the lower right-hand corner, preparing to stomp a cityscape depicted across the bottom of each page, and there's a little plastic Godzilla figure topping the pen. I'd considered keeping the set for myself, but I feel too bad about Suki's lost dragon to keep the set away from the person who, I now realize, is its proper owner.

"Hey, Suki!" I call out as she approaches. Suki barely deigns to acknowledge my greeting, but she does drift over to the table. "It's an advantageous day for banniks," she says to no one in particular.

"Uh... right," I say, while Jacob and Minnie give her baffled looks. "Anyway, do you want to buy a study pack? I have one that I thought you'd like." I hold out the Godzilla themed stationery set, and wait for her to register it.

When Suki focuses on the pack I'm holding out to her, her already huge eyes go even wider. She holds out her hand to take the set, and brings it close to her face, examining it. Finally, she turns her eyes up to me.

"Is - is his name Chester?" she asks, referring - I presume - to the Godzilla stomping the city on the pages.

"Well-ll," I start, unsure how to respond. I glance at Minnie and Jacob, but they both look just as confused as they had when Suki had first approached. I think for a moment and then say "yes. His name is Chester, and he told me he was waiting for you to take him home."

Suki gives a little gasp of amazement, and clutches the stationery set to her chest. "I_ knew it!_" she whispers, and holds out a rather dirty, crumpled five dollar bill that I'm sure had been clean and crisp when I'd tucked it into her envelope this morning. I take it, and pass it to Jacob.

"You two have fun!" I say, as Suki wanders away, still clutching her pack to her chest and - I think - crooning something to the little plastic Godzilla that tops her pen.

"What a_ freak_," says Jacob, behind me, and I turn to glare at him.

Minnie glares too. "Stop it Jake," she says. "That was really nice, Eliza."

Somehow Minnie's saying so makes me feel a bit embarrassed. "I just thought she'd like it," I mutter, and turn back to set out the last of the stock.

"Speaking of freaks," I hear Jacob say, and I glance back over my shoulder. But all I can see is Ahmed approaching the table, half hiding his face behind his sheaf of black hair.

When Ahmed sees me poke my head over the top of the table, he gives me his crooked half-smile, and I find it infectious enough to smile back.

"Hey loser," says Ahmed.

"Hey loser," I say back, grinning wider. "Buy some stationery? It's for freshman initiation. I have some very nice selections in blue."

Ahmed sticks his tongue out at me, and I laugh. But he does approach the table and take a look at the wares. "Got anything pretty?" he asks.

"Why?" Jacob asks him. "Who are you writing?"

Ahmed frowns up at Jacob - no, more than frowns, he scowls. And that's when I remember that Ahmed used to be a Falcon too, like Jacob. Was his quitting the hall something to do with Jacob?

"Sure do!" I say, faking cheer as I start shuffling through the remaining study packs on the table. "Look, this one's got peacock feathers-"

"Me and Logan are rooming with Maxwell this year," interrupts Jacob. "Did you know that?"

Ahmed doesn't drop his scowl, and he doesn't look at the peacock feathered stationery set I'm holding out to him. "I'll pass, thanks, Eliza," he says, and slouches off, moving his head so his hair hides his face from the three of us behind the table.

I turn to scowl at Jacob myself. "Thanks for losing us that sale," I snap.

Jacob snorts. "You're not actually, like, friends with Ahmed, are you?" he says.

I bristle. "So what if I am?" I say.

"Well you know what he did, right?" asks Jacob with a smirk. "I mean, _we have a very nice selection in blue_."

"I don't know what you mean," I say. "Just his boyfriend wrote him a letter in a blue envelope."

"Oh," says Jacob. "Figures."

"Come on, Jake," Minnie says, nervously. "If Eliza says she doesn't know-"

"She knows," says Jacob. "You know who his boyfriend is, right?"

"No, I don't know," I say, raising my voice almost to a shout. "And I don't c-"

But Jacob interrupts me before I can get the word out. "It's Damien Ramsey," he says.

And I shut up.


	5. Chapter 5

Damien Ramsey - it seems as though I haven't thought about him in months. And I haven't wanted to think about him.

Jacob's still smirking. "I just thought," he says, "that if anyone knew about him, it would be you. You were his freshman at initiation, right?"

"Yeah," I say, not really paying attention. Jacob is right - I had been Damien's freshman at last year's initiation, and I remember being utterly charmed by him. He'd been so strange and different, with his blue skin, purple hair and bat wings. He'd also been kind, making sure that the other seniors - Angela in particular - hadn't given me a hard time during the week when freshmen are vulnerable to senior bullying. And most importantly, he'd made sure that the love letter he'd asked for - the one that had shown up on Professor Grabiner's desk - hadn't landed me in detention. After initiation ended, I'd been elated that I'd made my first friend at Iris Academy who wasn't also my roommate.

But after the initiation picnic, Damien had blown me off, saying that he wasn't bored enough to hang out with me. I'd been angry, but I'd figured that Virginia had been right - that Damien was no good - and I'd written him off as a jerk.

A few weeks later, Damien had stopped me on the way to the Dark Dance, saying that his brusque treatment of me had all been a misunderstanding, and that he wanted to be friends. I had been about to tell him that yes, of course we could be friends, but something stopped me. I don't know exactly what it was, but I'd had an odd feeling, a sort of sickly sweet feeling, that reminded me of a long ago family reunion I'd attended when I was about eight. An older cousin had cornered me while I'd been playing with some of the other kids, and had whispered that she knew where her dad kept a stack of magazines with naked people in them, and would I like to go with her and see? I'd hesitated - admittedly curious - but the strange sickly feeling had stopped me. So when I felt that same feeling upon hearing Damien beg for friendship, all I wanted to do was get away from him as quickly as possible. I'd told Damien that we couldn't be friends. Although I'd felt terrible when he'd stormed off, I'd also felt... well... clean, somehow. Relieved. And I hadn't given him another thought until-

"You _did_ hear about what happened last spring?" pushes Jacob, and I have to think back again. Virginia had said... something during the spring about Damien getting expelled, something about him attacking a student, but I'd been so preoccupied about my marriage at the time that I hadn't paid any attention.

"Damien started dating Ahmed," Jacob says, "and in March Damien left this note for Ahmed to meet him in the gym at midnight? Like, super romantic, right?" Jacob scoffs at this, but he's also holding back a smirk, apparently not immune to the joys of spreading gossip. "Anyway, whatever happened, Professor Potsdam chased Damien off campus with, like, flaming swords or something, and expelled him. And Ahmed spent the night in the infirmary. Blood loss," he adds, lowering his voice.

"That's not Ahmed's fault," I say.

I hadn't expected it, but Jacob's smile turns even wider and more self-satisfied than before. "Well yeah, I guess _that_ wasn't Ahmed's fault," he says, "but a few weeks after that, Ahmed started getting these letters. His roommate Maxwell couldn't read them, but they always came in blue envelopes. Obviously from Damien."

My stomach gives a lurch as I remember this morning's blue envelope with the scrolling writing on it.

"So," continues Jacob, "Maxwell starts asking Ahmed is he really going to fall for Damien again, and Ahmed keeps saying no, no, right? But it turns out he's been writing to Damien this whole time. And," Jacob continues, "he starts meeting him. Like, outside school. The guy who put him in the infirmary, you know?" Jacob's enjoying himself now, relishing the fact that he's telling the story to someone who hasn't heard it before. And oddly, I'm reminded of someone else - my father-in-law - who loved to talk, who loved to show off in front of people he thought were stupid, or at least stupider than he'd been. Involuntarily, I press a hand to my chest, just underneath my sternum, where I still feel a little... loose.

"Anyway, then Ahmed does something _really_ stupid - he asks Professor Potsdam to let Damien back into school." Jacob scoffs at this. "After what he'd done, after he sent Ahmed to the infirmary and everything, Ahmed asks Professor Potsdam to let him back in! Saying he loves him! Well, of course she said no. And finally Maxwell has to confront him, like, during the final exam. And asks him to promise not to speak to Damien again. And Ahmed said-"

"He said no?" I ask, a desultory tone in my voice.

"Yep," Jacob affirms, his smile no longer gleeful, but wry. "So Maxwell, like, refuses to speak to him again. They fail their final exam and Maxwell gets assigned to our room this year. And Ahmed? Gets put in Toad. Where he belongs."

"Why?" I snap. "Because he loves somebody?"

"Somebody who tried to kill him? Uh, _yeah_," Jacob replies.

"Well," I say, ignoring that last, "what's so bad about being a Toad anyway?"

"They're _freaks_," says Jacob, as if that should be the most obvious thing in the world. "Toads and Snakes both. That's where Professor Potsdam puts the students who don't belong."

That doesn't seem right to me at all. It _is_ true that the Snakes and Toads I've met are a little unusual, but they're nowhere near not "belonging" to anything. Not that I'd ever gone out of my way to talk to any of them myself, now that I think about it.

"Anyway," says Jacob, "if you want to be friends with Ahmed - I mean, whatever. But you should at least know what you're getting into."

"Okay," I snap. "And if you want to be an enormous dick, I mean, whatever."

Jacob snorts and gives me a satisfied smirk. I huff out a breath, and turn away, suddenly sick of the entire conversation. But as I turn, I catch Minnie's eye, and freeze. She's not smiling - she's glaring at me, her eyes wet and red-rimmed.

"Uh-" I say, suddenly mortified. But Minnie doesn't let me finish - she swishes her hair to one side, blocking her face, and starts gathering the leftover stationery sets, stuffing them into one of the storage boxes without heeding whether the pages of the sets get bent or folded.

"He-ey," Jacob says, in a much gentler tone than he used with me. "Come on, babe. It's okay." He puts an arm around her shoulders to stop her jamming more stationery into the box, and then draws her away, murmuring something into her ear that's too low for me to hear. Minnie wipes her eyes furiously, sniffs, and lets Jacob walk her away from our stand and towards Butterfly Hall. He gives me a sardonic look over his shoulder before they go inside.

I'm left standing in the courtyard, frozen in shock. Okay, maybe I was a little mean to call Jacob a dick, but he was being pretty mean about Ahmed - the Snakes and the Toads too - but now he gets to be the hero just because I lost my temper? Still seething, I finish clearing the stationery sets off of the stand.

By the time I've finished, Jacob and Minnie still haven't come back, so I have to disassemble the stand by myself. It's large and unwieldy, and even though I cast a strength spell on myself, I'm dripping with sweat before I can manage to bring the whole thing down. The other classes' representatives have vanished by the time I collect the stand pieces, our money box, and the box of leftover stationery to deliver them to school storage and our class office.

By the time I've locked everything away, I'm exhausted, hot, sweaty, and irate, despite the impressive profit we've made for the initiation picnic. I stalk back to my room with the leftover stationery, considering whether I ought to take another shower, or to just change clothes.

When I get to my room, I open the door but then halt in the doorway, open-mouthed in disbelief at Ellen, who's sitting at her desk, with my book in her hands.

"Hey!" I shout, and Ellen whips her head toward the door, blushing a bit when she sees me.

"Oh - hey Eliza, I was just-" Ellen starts, but I don't let her finish before I drop my stationery box, stalk to where she's sitting and snatch the book out of her hands.

"Jeez - Eliza, will you chill?" snaps Virginia, who's sitting on her bed.

"That's _mine_! I shout, turning from Ellen to Virginia and back again. "You don't get to just take my stuff!"

"It's just a book!" Virginia shouts back.

"It's _my_ book!" I retort. "It was on _my_ bed-"

"Why are you freaking out so much?" Virginia snaps. "Is it from _him_ or something?"

I freeze, mouth open, clutching my book to my chest. "Wh-" I start. "Why do you-"

"It _is_, isn't it?" Virginia says, standing and scowling, her arms crossed over her chest. "Why's he sending you presents, anyway? I thought you were getting divorced."

"That's none of your business!" I snap. "He's my _husband_-"

"Yeah," says Virginia, "and I thought _we_ were your friends, so what's the big secret?"

Whatever I was about to say is suddenly snatched from my throat. All I can do is stare as Virginia glowers at me.

"Eliza," Ellen says quietly, "if this is from Professor Grabiner, when were you last reading it?"

My realization that Ellen read the flyleaf to my book shocks me out of my stupor, I whirl on her and spit "I told you, it's none of your _business_! _Don't_ go through my stuff and don't touch my books!"

No one answers me, and I come back to myself as my stomach takes a sickening flip. I briefly wonder if there's a way I can take all of it back - to re-enter my room and somehow make things okay again.

"Okay," Ellen says, in a voice both smooth and cool. "I'm sorry."

The room suddenly feels too hot and too close, and my skin, crusted with drying sweat, feels scaly and foul.

"I - have to go-" I say in a small voice, and rush out without looking back.

I jog through the hall, towards the doors that lead to the grounds surrounding the outer buildings of Iris Academy.

The grounds are full of sophomores, juniors and seniors wandering the paths and sitting on the benches, enjoying the afternoon sun. I'm filled with a sudden loathing for all of them - for their easy smiles, their laughter, the way they're talking with their friends without snapping. Instead of slowing down, I go faster, dodging the groups ambling down the paths. Once I reach the edge of the grounds, I take off in a full run.

I haven't run - not really - in the year since I first came to Iris Academy. I used to run on the track team, first in middle school, then for my first two years of high school, and I hadn't been bad at it. I wasn't driven, but I had enjoyed it enough that I took practice seriously, waking early to run every morning and attending practice even when my friends skipped. My athletic endeavors - save the sports club and occasional gym class at Iris - have come to a stop, as the Academy doesn't have competitive athletic teams. And I had consequently forgotten what it was like to haul off and seriously run.

Even with a book - a thick, heavy one - clutched in my arms, I can feel myself fall back into the old habits I had developed through years of training and practice. I can practically hear my old high school coach barking at me - _knees up, head up, shoulders down, Moon! Hustle!_ - and my breath comes full and deep, filling every recess in my chest.

This lasts for about two minutes before I feel a stitch in one side, and come stumbling to a stop, gasping for air, dropping my book onto the grass to clutch my knees. The edges of my vision go red, and for a brief moment I feel dizzy before the fit passes, and I can rise again.

This, I decide, is just the icing atop an entirely depressing morning. I used to be able to run middle distances - eight hundred to fifteen hundred meter races - without difficulty, but after a year without running, my racing abilities seem completely shot. Coach O'Donnell would definitely be ashamed.

I could, I suppose, bolster my strength with another green magic spell, but somehow this feels like it would be cheating. I had, after all, gotten myself onto the track team, and even won myself a smattering of races, under my own non-magical power. And anyway, Virginia had told me last year that magic and athletics aren't an approved mix in the magical world. If I want to be able to run again, I'm going to have to do things the old-fashioned way, or not at all.

After a minute passes and the stitch in my side stops twinging quite so much, I pick up my book, dust it off, and start walking toward a crop of trees, my breathing still coming fast and harsh in my throat.

After a brief check for signs of poison ivy, I settle myself on the ground, back propped against one of the trees, and open my book. The message on the flyleaf is still there, but somehow doesn't inspire the almost giddy joy I had felt this morning. Now it doesn't seem like enough - just one line of writing, after he promised he'd write me letters?

_Just stop_, I scold myself, _he gave you a book and now you're being picky. What kind of wife are you?_

_One that's going to be divorced in four months no matter what I do_, comes the immediate reply inside my head. This does nothing to lighten my mood, so instead I open my book in an attempt to distract myself.

It's a lovely book, bound in maroon leather with nicely aged pages, and that spicy-vanilla smell that's particular to aging, well kept libraries. And I really had enjoyed reading it over the summer. Now, however, I can't seem to keep my mind on the text, and have to give up as my eyes slide over the pages without taking anything in. All I can see is Ellen's wounded expression when I'd snatched the book out of her hands, and all I can think is _God, why did I do that?_

Frustrated, I abandon the text and flip to the pictures instead - a staggered series of engraved plates depicting the architectural work of Nicholas Hawksmoor.

These, at least, get my attention, and I pore over the intricate detail of the gothic west towers of Westminster Abbey, and the squat, arched columns of Saint Alphege's, Greenwich. But the best one, the prize, is in the middle of the book - a depiction of Saint Amphibalus's at Oxford - the only college structure that Hawksmoor was able to complete for the university before it lost the funds it had allocated to his architectural work. The non-magical colleges that Oxford had commissioned from Hawksmoor had to be re-designed and completed by other architects, making Saint Amphibalus's an unusual treasure.

_I'm going_, I tell the plate, running my eyes over the thin black lines on the page. _Just you wait_.

It's a while before I can bring myself to look at the next plate, but when I do, I hiss in my breath in surprise.

The plate depicts the west front of Christ Church, Spitalfields, a strange, almost forbidding structure. With its narrow, high steeple, the building seems almost to jut out of the ground, like the canine tooth of some indifferent, pagan god emerging from the center of the earth. But the thing that shocked me wasn't the picture, it's the piece of thick, cream-colored paper covered in tiny script inserted between the plate and its protective tissue cover. And as I ease the paper out of the book, I can't help but grin so hard, it hurts my face. It seems I've gotten a letter after all.

_Eliza,_

_Rain yesterday, rain today, and unless I am very much mistaken, I expect that it will rain again tomorrow. In the past weeks, I've become convinced that my native country's unfortunate history of imperialism resulted from nothing more than a misguided attempt to get ourselves out of the wet._

_Wet or no, it appears that I shall be staying in London for the foreseeable future. My only consolation is that I am not forced to remain in Northumberland, which I understand is unseasonably cold at this time, even for the north. It seems that my late father was not in the habit of keeping a great deal of magical artifacts at Yeavering Hall, which means that the extent to which I was forced to clean up after him was curtailed, to my great relief. Mrs. Barton is currently heading up the remaining arrangements, and expects to have the whole wretched place shuttered by Michaelmas._

_In the meantime, I find myself burdened with the legal matters of taking over the family estate - both magical and non-magical - the latter of which throws me into contact with the dreadful Mr. Hoffman almost daily. Had I not considerable evidence to the contrary, I would be forced to assume that my father engaged the man for the sole purpose of torturing me in his absence. In addition, I have had to remain in contact with representatives of the UK's magical council in order to ensure that no magical artifacts are distributed to outsiders through testaments and the like. This, needless to say, has caused significant delay in the probate process._

_I shall spare you the details of the matters in which I am engaged, for which I expect to receive an outpouring of abject gratitude in your next letter. I can only hope that the start of the new school year is marginally more interesting for you, though I caution you against too much excitement. I expect you to remain among the living for the time being, at least until I can divorce you and have done with this entire mess. Afterward, please feel free to throw yourself in front of as many murderous creatures as you like, so long as they have nothing to do with me._

_I hope that you have found the enclosed, or rather, the enclosing book to meet your satisfaction. It seemed rather a pity to allow you to leave something this educational to remain unfinished. While I cannot say that I condone your taste in the Gothic - whether architectural, literary or otherwise - I admit that it could certainly be worse._

_Do let me know how you are faring in your second year. I expect you to excel in your academic efforts, however, so please do not spend an inordinate amount of time upon correspondence. As for myself, I must end this letter here; I hope to write again within the week._

_Until such time, I remain_

_Yours,_

_H_

_P.S. __Abject__ gratitude, mind._

I read the letter over again, and then a third time, the smile fading from my face with every line. It's a perfectly nice letter, yes, but that's all it is. All that about looking forward to the divorce - that's a joke, of course, I recognize Hieronymous's mix of gallows humor and bone-dry sarcasm. But beyond that, it feels distant, like it's a friend or an acquaintance writing to me, not a husband.

Part of me, the rational part, knows that this is exactly how he should act. He's already told me that he can't be my husband in more than a nominal sense, since I'm still too young. But the not-rational part feels a sinking, dragging sort of sensation when confronted with real proof of our arm's-length detente, especially after we'd shared - well, whatever it was we'd shared on the night before I'd left England.

If he'd been really dismissive, if he hadn't sent me a letter at all, or just sent a curt note, or asked me not to write any more, I could have at least cried or felt justified in being sad. With this forcible friendliness, I feel ungrateful for being disappointed, and that just makes everything worse.

I sit under the tree for a long time, long enough for the light to turn gold behind me, and for my limbs to go stiff. I read through my letter and flip through my book without really registering their contents, my eyes feeling dry and hard.

The air around me has begun to go a little cold, and I start to wonder what time it is, when I hear a rustling in the foliage nearby. I look up, startled, to see Ahmed making his way out of the brush.

He stops when he sees me, and we stare at each other for a full minute.

Finally, I break the silence. "What are you doing here?"

He doesn't answer for a moment, but furrows his thick eyebrows so that they seem to hood his face.

"Are you gonna make me say, like, 'I could as you the same question?'" he finally asks. "Because I'll have you know, I avoid clichés like the plague."

This makes me snicker, and he flashes me his crooked smile.

"I was just heading back," he says. "Wanna go get dinner?"

"Oh," I say, suddenly uncertain. "Maybe not."

"Why's that?"

"Well," I say, not quite able to look Ahmed in the eye, "I feel like I'm having this competition with myself to see how many friends I can lose in one day."

Ahmed considers this, still knitting his eyebrows. "Okay," he says. "Try me."

"Um," I start. "Well... you smell like... deviled eggs. And - uh - I hate the color blue. Worst color."

Ahmed smiles again. "Nope," he says. "Didn't work. Anyway, I like deviled eggs."

"Well I think they're gross," I reply.

"Still not working," Ahmed says.

I stand up, trying to ignore the ache in my butt from sitting on the hard ground for so long. "Well maybe I'll do better at dinner," I say.

"Doubt it," Ahmed says, starting to walk toward school. "I heard you called Jacob Blaising an enormous dick this morning."

"Already?" I say, incredulous.

"Iris Academy is, if nothing else, an extremely efficient gossip mill," Ahmed informs me with a lofty smile. "Although by the time it got to me, you had punched him in the face and Minnie had set your sale stand on fire with a flare spell."

"I certainly get myself into weird situations when I'm not around," I say, though I'm already half smiling at the thought of how this story must have come into being.

"And you throw a mean punch," Ahmed confirms, looking completely serious.

"Yes I do," I reply, and we tromp over the field that leads to the Iris Academy grounds.

We get to the cafeteria just as it's opening for dinner, the result of which is that I get back to my room while Ellen and Virginia are, presumably, still eating. It's nice to have the place to myself for once, especially since I still feel terrible about yelling at my roommates this afternoon. I determine to apologize to Ellen for freaking out - and to Virginia too, I guess, but part of me is still irritated. It was _my_ book, after all, sitting on my bed. Ellen didn't have any business going through my stuff, and I still feel a squidge in my stomach every time I think of her reading the flyleaf. She could have read my _letter_ if she'd found it, I realize - and it makes me feel even worse. Even if there wasn't anything, you know, _intimate _in the letter, it still makes me almost sick to think of anyone else reading it.

I sift through my box of unsold stationery and pick out a set - ivory colored with a spring green border. I do give the peacock feather patterned set a look, but decide that it's a little too gaudy - better for writing to someone like Damien Ramsey than Hieronymous Grabiner. Maybe I'll give Ahmed that set for free after all.

I climb up onto my bunk, settle myself on my stomach, and prop the notepad up on my new book.

_Dear,_ I write, and then stop.

The blank page of the notepad suddenly seems to stretch itself before me. I don't know how I could possibly fill it, unless I write all those words I'm not supposed to say any more.

So instead, I write _Mom and Dad._

I stare at the page again, feeling both relieved and disappointed with myself. This seems cowardly.

_Well_, I think, _he did say not to spend too long writing. You've got that red magic essay to get through tonight because you need all day tomorrow to get through the reading for red magic and get ahead on blue before Monday. So first write this letter and then take a shower, because seriously, you smell like a gym sock._

I tap the end of the pen against the page, and then write: _Could you send me my running shoes?_


	6. Chapter 6

**Edit: Thank you, anon, for the tip on Laurel's name!**

_Dear Hieronymous,_

_OH THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU. THE MOST ABJECT OF GRATITUDES TO YOU DEAR SIR FOR YOUR KIND RESTRAINT. THE DETAILS OF YOUR LIFE, STULTIFYING AS THEY MUST BE, HOLD NO INTEREST FOR AN ADVENTURESS SUCH AS MYSELF. YOUR FORBEARANCE IS TRULY THE STUFF OF LEGENDS._

_There. Abject enough for you? Actually I think you're selling yourself short. Getting to run around London is probably way more fun than being cooped up here at Iris. Oh except I forgot - you don't have fun. Well then, it's probably just as boring as you say it is, but that's your own fault._

_We just had Initiation Week, as you've probably guessed. It's a lot more relaxing this year, since all I had to do was buy supplies for the weekend picnic. Actually, now that I'm not a terrified freshman anymore, I think that the seniors are probably just as nervous as the freshman, trying to think of ways to assert their superiority over an entire class. Oh - and just think, it was this time last year when I wrote you the first in a series of extremely romantic letters, of which this is the latest installment. I still think your teeth are kind of like knives, though no, I have no idea what I meant by that, or why it is romantic. It just is._

_Anyway, you'll be happy to know that this year, I have not become caught up in the creation of love letters. I get up early every day to study._

* * *

I get up early every day to run.

On Monday morning I wake in the dark, my portable alarm next to me on the bed so that I can whack it before it makes too much noise and wakes Ellen and Virginia. I don't turn on the light, but peel off my pajamas and tug on my gym clothes, which I'd set at the foot of my bed the night before. I creep from the room, picking up my shoes as I go, and slip into the hallway. My regular school shoes aren't exactly suited for running, and I can't transfigure them all the way into running shoes yet, but I do manage to make the soles a little more grippy and the inners a bit more cushy. Once they're transfigured and on my feet, I make my way through the hall and out the door.

The outdoor air is cool and moist, feeling almost wet as I slide into it. I pause, breathing for a moment, feeling my skin pucker into gooseflesh before I set out in a jog.

I don't make the mistake I made on Saturday, trying to sprint right out of the gate, but move at a slowish pace until I feel my muscles begin to warm and my limbs begin to move in their familiar pattern. I feel good enough that when I reach the end of the grounds I don't turn around, but veer away to the road that leads down the mountain.

Being in the Green Mountains in the early autumn dawn is almost heartbreakingly beautiful. All the trees are still green and lush, and the air begins to warm as the sun begins its rise before me - pearl pink, blush, pale coral. The road winds down the mountain, and the act of running downhill feels almost like flying. But by the time I reach a hairpin turn halfway down the mountain, I realize that I'll need to turn back now or else I'll be wheezing before I get back to the top.

It's slower going uphill, but the sun rising above the trees is both more terrible and beautiful than I could imagine. It rises yellow and fierce in the east, burning away the moisture in the air. I make it halfway back before I stagger and have to walk the rest of the way, breath searing through my lungs as though the sun had set the very air on fire. I feel exhausted but somehow numbed, anesthetized from the previous week, able to take whatever initiation week can throw at me.

_I'm still rooming with Ellen and Virginia this year, and things are pretty much the same - they say hi, and hope you're doing well in England._

When I get back to the room after my shower, both Ellen and Virginia are gone - already headed to breakfast, I guess. I finish getting dressed, half relieved that I won't have to talk to them, and half lonely. I'd made a halting apology to Ellen when she'd gotten back to our room on Saturday night, and she'd accepted, but in a hard, cool voice that put me in mind of a slab of seamless marble. Try as I might, my apologies slid off as soon as I'd tried to make them. Since then, we'd exchanged a few polite words when we'd found ourselves in the room together, but nothing more. Virginia, on the other hand, is pointedly not speaking to me.

I finish getting dressed, and by the time I get out the door, Ahmed's in the hall waiting for me.

"Breakfast?" he suggests, and I agree, grateful that there's someone in this school willing to be my friend. Still, I'm nervous about going into the cafeteria - yesterday, we'd ducked in and out just as a meal had opened or closed so as to avoid the rest of the eating students. Today is the first day I'll have to face everyone during regular meal hours.

_And I've been spending time with the rest of my friends. It's great to see them now that the summer is over._

When we get to the cafeteria, it's packed and noisy, full of students brandishing trays and jostling each other around the tables. Once Ahmed and I fill our coffee cups and get trays of eggs, toast and fruit, we venture out into the crowd to try to find somewhere to sit. There isn't much space, so we have to weave our way through a forest of scraping chairs and dodging freshmen. I spot Ellen and Virginia at a table, surrounded by Pastel, Luke, Logan, Donald, Jacob and Minnie. Minnie glances up at me as I pass, and both of us quickly look away again.

"Let's sit there," I say, pointing at a table in the far corner - the same one I'd taken Ellen and Virginia to talk just last week. The thought makes me ache a little, now that the two of them aren't sitting with me.

Like last week, Suki is alone at the table, and this time she's drawing a pattern on a square of scrambled eggs with ketchup from a packet. I almost skirt around her to sit down, but all of the sudden feel badly that last week I'd ignored her in the same way that I'm being ignored now. So instead I say "hey, Suki."

Suki looks up with her slightly goggly eyes and blinks at me, ketchup packet in one hand, and the pen with the little Godzilla topper in the other.

"Canme'n'Ahmedsitwithyou?" I blurt, the words tumbling out of me in my rush to get this embarrassing question over with.

Suki doesn't say anything, and for a second I think she's going to say no. But then I realize that she's waiting for something.

"And Chester!" I correct, nodding to the pen. "Can we sit with you and Chester?"

Suki beams at me and says "sure," dipping her pen so that Chester appears to nod his agreement. Ahmed cuts his eyes at me for a moment, but then gives his crooked grin. "Hey Suki," he says. "Hey Chester."

"Chester is pleased to make your acquaintance," Suki says, and we sit.

"Well," Ahmed says, "I guess this meeting of the Iris Academy Losers' Club is now in session."

* * *

_Anyway, Initiation Week wasn't so bad this year. I guess that's mostly because I'm not a freshman, but I really didn't see much bullying going on. Instead, everyone was in good spirits, and just had fun together. It might be because the teachers sort of laid down the law before things got started, which was probably for the best._

* * *

Ahmed, Suki and I make our way through the crowd of students into the gymnasium and take seats in the very back row. For some reason, my heart feels like it's palpitating in my chest.

_Just relax,_ I tell myself. _You'll be fine. You're not a freshman anymore, no one will make you write love letters or abandon you._

This last thought startles me, partly because I hadn't thought I'd been worried about being abandoned - but mostly because I feel as though I've been abandoned already, and the worst is over. _There isn't anything else that could go wrong - is there_? I find myself thinking.

We wait for the incumbent senior class president to take the stage, but ten minutes go by, then fifteen. The entire gymnasium begins to hum, and then to buzz with the murmurs of wondering students. Twenty minutes pass, and still no one appears at the podium.

"Excellent," Ahmed says. "Ten more minutes and we'll be so late for class we won't be able to have one this morning."

"But I had green magic today!" wails Suki. "Chester was going to learn his first spell!"

The ten minutes pass as the student body becomes louder and more restless, but just as Ahmed hisses "wanna go?" someone strides to the podium. That someone is - to my dismay - Professor Terrec.

He's walking calmly, serenely, with the same dreamy expression on his face that I'd seen the first day in class. Again, I'm struck by his rather unearthly beauty - and a little affected by it. He looks like a fairy tale prince, both beautiful and unapproachable, about to confront a dragon. I sigh before I can help myself.

"Good morning students," Professor Terrec says in his fuzzy not-quite-an-accent. "I am Professor Terrec. Many of the freshman and sophomore students have met me in their blue and red magic courses. I am very pleased to be invited to instruct you this year."

A collective sigh wafts up from the audience, but I shake myself, freeing myself from the spell of his beauty. I can just picture Professor Grabiner's reaction to Professor Terrec's announcement - stony-faced silence, one eyebrow raised a hair's breadth. Imagining this sends fierce longing bubbling up through my chest, and I look at my hands, worried that it's too plain on my face, how much I miss my husband.

"However," Professor Terrec continues from the lectern, "I must now introduce my second capacity at Iris Academy - ensuring the continued safety of its students."

A murder washes through the crowd, and even I can't help casting a quizzical glance at Ahmed. He looks about as confused as I feel.

"The United States' magical council has been made aware of several incidents involving the serious misuse of magic that took place during the last school year," says Professor Terrec. "These incidents placed several students' lives at risk. One of these incidents even involved an instructor at this Academy - one who, perhaps wisely, has elected not to return this year."

A rustle through the crowd as most of the students turn their heads to look at me.

"That's not fair!" I say. I meant it to be a shout, but it comes out in a whisper so quiet that only Ahmed and Suki seem to hear me. Ahmed jabs me in the arm with his elbow.

I stare up at Professor Terrec who seems to glance at me with a rather smug expression, but it's gone so quickly that I might have only imagined it.

I open my mouth again, though I'm not sure what I want to say exactly - only that I want it to be loud - but Ahmed hisses in my ear. "C'mon Eliza - _don't_." So I don't. I just press my lips together and glare up as Professor Terrec continues his speech.

"The purpose of your education at Iris Academy is to learn the uses of magic, but also to become responsible for the great power that the accident of your birth has placed at your fingertips," says Professor Terrec. "To allow this power to go unchecked or untrained would be a grave injustice on the part of the adults tasked to teach you the magical arts. And so, I must warn all of you."

He casts his eyes across the assembled students, and even Donald and Luke go quiet under his gaze.

"I understand this is a week of high spirits and... high jinks. But those of you who use your powers unwisely will not simply have to contend with the inconvenience of demerits or detentions. We will give serious thought as to whether you will be permitted to continue the practice of magic at all."

The silence in the gymnasium breaks, and there is a low hum as the students process what Professor Terrec has just said. If a young witch or wizard, wildseed or not, is no longer allowed to practice magic, es mind will be erased, and e'll be thrown out of the magical community for life. For someone like me, who has non-magical family to go to, that's one thing, but for someone like Ellen, who has abandoned her family, or Virginia, whose entire family is magical, that means something else entirely. The freshmen at the front of the room look bewildered; the remaining students look grim.

"And now," Professor Terrec says mildly, "please go on and enjoy your festivities." He leaves the lectern and walks from the gymnasium, looking just as placid as he had when he'd walked in.

The rest of the students are not so placid. The president of the senior class - a startlingly pretty girl from Butterfly Hall with blond and pink hair - wobbles to the lectern, and begins her explanation of Initiation Week. Instead of sounding full of boisterous good humor, as William had last year, she sounds shaky and uncertain. The freshmen, as they line up to receive their initiation handbooks, all look terrified. Even the ribbing the seniors give the freshmen as they circle to make their choices is half-hearted. As for me, I'm just grateful that I don't have to get up or do anything - my legs feel so wobbly and weak that I don't think I can stand.

Once the freshmen have been herded out of the gym by the seniors, Ahmed turns to me with a frown. "What have you got next?" he asks.

It takes me a moment to understand what he's asking. "Class? Uh." I have to flip through my schedule to remember - my mind has gone blank. "Blue," I say, feeling a sinking in my chest as I look at the penciled word.

"Me too," Ahmed says. "Wanna skip?"

I'm sorely tempted to say yes, but my mind flicks to the card pasted on my ceiling, and I clench my jaw. "Nope," I say. "He's gonna have to do better than that to scare me out of class." I stand, happy to find that my legs hold under me.

"He seemed kinda scary to me," mutters Ahmed, looking up at me from under his thick eyebrows.

"Trust me," I say, "he has _nothing_ on my late father-in-law."

* * *

_Our new teacher, Professor Terrec, got his share of love letters this week. So far he hasn't responded to any of them, but no one's giving up hope. Do you know him, by the way? Professor Yves Terrec. No big deal, but he seems kind of unusual, and I'm curious._

* * *

It's true that Professor Terrec's speech on Monday morning of Initiation Week did little to dampen the spirits of his many student admirers. After some debating on the first day, most Iris Academy students seem to have concluded that Professor Terrec wasn't saying anything that we hadn't been told since we first obtained magical powers, and so it wasn't a threat, not _really_.

Pastel in particular is completely devoted to our new professor, sitting in the front of every red and blue class I attend, raising her hand at every question, and beaming at even the slightest praise she receives for her correct answers. Professor Terrec, to his credit, seems not to notice Pastel's - or anyone's - attentions. He receives a scattering of love letters each day of the week - many of which, I'm amused to note, are written on the stationery that I'd managed to sell last Saturday. But at the start of each class, he pays no attention to the flurry of envelopes on his desk. He only sweeps the envelopes into a drawer and locks it, to the disappointment of many students - male, female, or otherwise. I'm not sure whether Professor Terrec reads the letters, or burns them, or what, but he certainly doesn't lose his temper over any of them.

Little by little, day by day, everyone's exuberance returns, and soon the seniors are reveling in their role as dictators of the freshman class. No one gets up the nerve to pull any stunts (besides delivery of sundry love letters) in Professor Terrec's classroom, but the hallways become a mad scene of freshman performing all sorts of absurd acts. The best one is when an unknown senior convinces three freshman girls to corner Donald Danson in the cafeteria and serenade him with a surprisingly adept a cappella rendition of "Be My Baby." A crowd quickly forms and soon is clapping along with the girls, who gain confidence and volume as the song continues. Donald turns a deep shade of aubergine, but is a good sport and applauds along with the rest of us once the song comes to an end. The song is the talk of the week, though I notice that Ellen seems prickly every time it's mentioned.

Not that I see a lot of Ellen, or Virginia. I'm swamped with work - trying not just to keep up but to race ahead in classes, picking out the food that the sophomores will contribute to Friday's picnic, and helping with the setup. And I get up early every morning to run. By the time Friday comes around, I'm able to run to the hairpin turn and back without having to stop and walk, though I still wheeze after I'm finished. Still, I can already tell that I'm getting stronger, little by little. And every time I run I feel a little bit better about school, too. By Friday morning, as I'm puffing my way back up the road, I can almost believe that Professor Terrec's strange speech on Monday was exactly what he'd claimed it to be - a warning for students' safety, nothing more. The campus, stretching before me in the sunrise, looks too pristine to harbor mysterious plots against the students.

_Maybe Hieronymous is right_, I think, jogging around the bend to the campus grounds. _Maybe I'm a little too obsessed with the Gothic. This isn't Northanger Academy, after all_.

* * *

_The Initiation Week picnic came off really well. The new class of freshmen seem to be enjoying themselves. I'm just relieved the week is over, and things can go back to whatever passes for normal around here._

* * *

After my Friday morning run, I just have time for a quick shower before I have to race outside to the vans that are carrying part of the senior class as well as the junior and sophomore student council members to the lakeside so that we can set up for the picnic. Minnie has somehow gotten Jacob a pass to come along with us, which is both an annoyance and a relief - they're so preoccupied with each other, I don't have to make any awkward small talk with either of them as we get our table set up. And it's easy for me to melt into the crowd of seniors once we're finished, helping with one job or another until it's time for the freshmen to arrive.

Last year, I remember having my blindfold taken off and feeling almost giddy with relief that the whole awful week was over, and I wouldn't have to be ordered around any more. That alone was cause for celebration, and I'd spent the day gleefully running around with Damien.

But when this year's crop of freshmen exit the vans, they seem oddly subdued. They cluster together in clumps, whispering together, not bothering to go for any of the food or looking for their seniors. The effect is so strange that Minnie forgets that she isn't speaking to me and tugs at the sleeve of my uniform.

"What's going on?" she whispers.

"I don't know," I whisper back. I look over my shoulder at Jacob, but he looks just as puzzled as Minnie.

The senior class president - Laurel, her name is - is in the middle of the the nearest clump of freshmen, having been part of the senior group who'd been in charge of blindfolding and herding them into the vans. Minnie, Jacob and I are too far away to hear what she says to them, but we are close enough to watch Laurel's smile drop at the sides but stay at the top, until it looks as though she's grimacing at something repulsive. When the freshmen start to shrink away from her, she drops the smile, but starts speaking to them in a low murmur, patting one or another of them on the shoulder from time to time. The other seniors who had traveled with the freshmen in the vans follow suit. A few of the seniors, and juniors who'd come to the park early to set up begin to drift over, following Laurel's lead, and soon Minnie does too.

I glance behind me at Jacob, but he hasn't moved. "Aren't you going with her?" I ask.

"Nah," Jacob says. "Minnie's better at that girly emotional stuff than me."

I turn so he can't see me roll my eyes in disgust.

We wait in silence until Minnie returns to our snack table, her face stark white.

"What is it?" I ask.

Minnie swallows and licks her lips. "Um," she says. "Well - you know that girl who sang to Donald on Wednesday? Who sang the lead part?"

"Yeah," I say. I didn't know her name, but I had seen the serenade. "She has a great voice."

"She had an mp3 player," Minnie says. "I guess Professor Potsdam warned her to get rid of it last week, and she told her roommate she had, but she just hid it. She was wildseed, so I guess she didn't really get it yet."

"Wait," I say, "she _was_ wildseed?"

"Yeah," says Minnie. "Professor Terrec expelled her."

"_What?_" Jacob asks. "No warning? No demerits? Detention?"

Minnie shakes her head. "No nothing."

I stare at Minnie, flabbergasted. A sudden expulsion just for an mp3 player, which could have just as easily been taken away from the offending student. And the poor girl probably had no idea _why_ she wasn't allowed her music - even after a year at Iris I'm still fuzzy on exactly why we're not allowed to have technology at school, only that it's strictly forbidden. But expulsion?

"And that's not the worst part," Minnie says, interrupting my train of thought. "The worst part is? He did it in front of the entire freshmen class while they were waiting in the gym this morning. Just... told her she was expelled for the mp3 player and then wiped her mind, right there in the gym. She collapsed, and he picked her up and walked out like he was taking out a bag of trash."

Minnie's eyes are brimming with unshed tears, her lower lip trembling.

"Where was Professor Potsdam?" asks Jacob. "She didn't tell him to do all that - right?"

"I don't know," says Minnie. "The freshmen didn't say she was there, but-" she cuts off, twirling the ends of her hair so hard, I start to fear they'll snap. "Professor Terrec wouldn't just expel someone without getting her permission - would he?"

"Maybe we should ask her," I say.

Jacob turns to me with a frown. "We could try, I guess," he says, "but do you really think that would work? I mean, you know what she's like. You go to her with whatever, and she smiles and chirps at you, but she never really _does_ anything."

"I - yeah," I say, thinking of last year when I'd witnessed Minnie's ex, Kyo, threaten both Minnie and Jacob in the school courtyard. My first instinct was to find an adult - Kyo was acting so scary that I didn't think Minnie could deal with him on her own, or even with Jacob. So I told Professor Potsdam what had happened, but she had refused to intervene. This was, I'd thought at the time, a horrible thing to do, so I'd gone to Professor Grabiner instead. He, at least, had taken the threat seriously, and had put the fear of God - or, at least, the fear of Grabiner - into Kyo, who had left Minnie alone from then on. I begin to wonder now whether Jacob had gone to Professor Potsdam as well, and had gotten the same answer she had given me.

"I never thought I'd say this," Jacob says, "but I kind of wish Professor Grabiner was here."

"Yeah," I say under my breath. "No kidding."

* * *

_Thank you so much for the book, by the way. I love it. Though I think even you have to admit after the summer I had, I have a little justification for enjoying the Gothic. Don't worry, I'm not going around seeing skeletons in closets or fainting artfully in a swirl of nightgown or anything. Reading about architecture is probably the least melodramatic thing I could be doing - you should be grateful._

_I should sign off here - two weeks and you're probably wondering where your letter is already, right? Please write me back soon. And take care of yourself, okay?_

_Yours,_

_Eliza_

_P.S. All my hate to Mr. Lewis. Have you got rid of that guy yet?_

* * *

"Eliza, are you done yet? I want to go to bed," snaps Virginia. It's the first full sentence she's said to me all week, and she doesn't look happy to be talking to me.

"Five minutes," I say, trying and failing to disguise the defensiveness creeping into my voice.

Virginia doesn't say anything back, but rolls her eyes and makes a disgusted sound in the back of her throat. I ignore her.

I read over my letter again. It's perfect. Light and funny in tone, no indication that there's anything amiss. And almost everything I've written is a lie.

For a moment, I'm a little ashamed of myself - but then, if I were going to tell the truth, what would I write?

_Everything's horrible here, I've changed my mind, can I stay in London with you please?_

I can't do that. For one thing, I already made up my mind - it's too late to change it now. And for another, well, I can't even bring myself to consider how I would react if he said no.

_And he would say no_, I think. No because I'm too young, no because we're getting divorced in four months and he'll be glad to rid himself of the responsibility. And anyway, it's no good worrying him now. I'll talk to Professor Potsdam tomorrow and everything will be fine.

"I'm turning off the light," says Virginia.

"Fine," I mutter, and roll over on my bunk, folding the letter and putting it under my pillow so I won't crush it. _ Initiation week. God._

What a mess this year's picnic turned out to be. The freshmen ate practically none of the food we gave them - Minnie and I had to pack up the rest to give to the cafeteria workers, who were able to serve it to the rest of the students at dinner. And to think, just last year, I was racing around, having fun with-

"Wait!" I say, remembering something.

Virginia, who's halfway to the light switch, whirls on me with an irritated frown as I jump from my bunk. "What?" she says.

"I just need to check something," I say, racing to my wardrobe without looking at her.

"I'm _really_ tired," Ellen joins in, sounding just as irate as Virginia.

"Just one minute!" I'm at the wardrobe now, and grabbing at my red suitcase, which I've stashed at the bottom. I unzip the top front pocket and fish inside - nothing. But when I open the second pocket, there it is - I feel it, hard, cold and smooth under my fingers, and pull it out.

It's a pocketknife - nothing too exciting, just a smooth blue enamel case with two fold-out blades enclosed within. Damien had given it to me at the start of last year's freshman picnic, in response to my love letter. He'd told me he'd had it since he was a boy, but had wanted me to have it now. I feel a little ashamed that I'd just put it away and forgotten about it.

"E_li_za," Virginia says, sounding really pissed now.

"Yeah yeah," I say, slipping the pocketknife into the pocket of my school uniform hanging in the wardrobe. "Hit the light."

It's not easy, climbing up to my bunk in the dark, but I manage it.


	7. Chapter 7

I crouch on the ground, anchoring my hands into the dirt path, wriggling my fingers until they sink into the soft soil.

"Ready?" Ahmed calls from a nearby bench. I flex my feet, one firmly on the ground, and one propped against a convenient rock.

"Set..." Ahmed says, and I lean back into the rock, tensing the muscles in my arms, legs, stomach.

"Go!" Ahmed says, and I push off horizontally, almost as though I were swimming rather than running. It's a few strides before I'm fully vertical, and once I am, I concentrate on moving each part of me exactly right - knees pumping as high as I can get them, head steady and pointing straight ahead, arms close to my torso but moving easily with each stride.

Sprinting is different from other kinds of running - different moves, different posture, different focus. I'm not very good at it - my particular strength has always lain in middle distance running. A strong, fast start and a kick at the finish are important in 800 or 1000 meter races, but what really counts is how well you can push through the pain that sets in around the middle of the race - the tiny kernel of fire that kindles in the lungs, stealing your oxygen as it grows; the ache that laps up the thighs like the waves of a softly poisonous sea.

But I'm half in love with the _concept_ of sprinting - how the start is the most important thing, how you have to position yourself in order to allow your body to uncoil out of the block, as if you're the bullet in the starter pistol. How you have to maintain your form just so, in order to maximize your distance in so short a time. And most of all, I love how a well-run sprint seems to take me over what I think of as the pain barrier - as though I could run so fast that I could leave everything, even the sensations in my own body, behind. When I stop after a sprint, it all comes rushing back - the fatigue, the ache, the breathlessness - but for just a few seconds while I run, I feel as though part of me could catapult out of my body and fly away, leaving everything else behind forever.

A tree swims up in my vision, and I slow so as not to slam into it, reaching out my left hand to touch the trunk. I stumble to a stop, feeling all of those sensations flood back into my system, and look back at the bench Ahmed's sitting on.

"Okay," he says, peering at the stopwatch we borrowed from the gym - a rare piece of technology permitted at Iris, and thoroughly magic-proofed. "You clock in at seventeen-point-six seconds."

"Woo hoo!" I say, raising my arms and jogging back to Ahmed's bench, even though that isn't anywhere close to my best time for a hundred meter race, and further still from anything approaching championship levels. "And the gold goes to Eliza Moon!"

"Yeah yeah," Ahmed says. "National anthem plays, everybody cries from patriotism, confetti confetti." But he does toss one of his hands in the air and causes a shower of confetti-like sparks to rain down on me. I giggle, feeling a little self-conscious, but there's no one else around to see me goofing off. Everyone's at breakfast, which I'd convinced Ahmed to skip so that I could break in the running shoes that came in this morning's post.

"Okay, Chariots of Fire," Ahmed says, "you said if I timed you running, we could do something fun today."

"Yup," I say. I thought we could review white magic in the library."

Ahmed groans. "You said _fun_."

"That _is_ fun," I retort. Well okay, it's not _that_ fun, but I'd skipped white magic that week to load up on red, blue, and green for yesterday's exam, and now I'm feeling anxious about falling behind.

"Not library fun," says Ahmed, "_fun_ fun. And anyway, you said you'd aced the exam yesterday. We should take a break."

I consider this. Yes, I had aced yesterday's exam - the first one of the year - by luring the hive of adolescent manticores that had been roaming the maze into following me, and then trapping them into a magic-buffering cage I'd formed from the stone walls and floor of the dungeon with a mix of blue and black magic. I hadn't been able to completely prevent the creatures from casting spells through the cage, and only barely managed to dodge the rain of spiny, poisonous barbs they'd thrown at me, but I'd made it out of the dungeon unscathed. And it was a pretty good win, so I thought. I hoped the Oxford admissions board would agree with me.

But I'd had another reason to ace my exam that didn't relate to my academic ambitions - Professor Potsdam. It's been two weeks since the Initiation picnic, and I haven't had the chance to say a single word to her, much less ask her about Professor Terrec's abrupt expulsion of the freshman wildseed girl. I'd seen her sweeping through the halls, but even when I'd sprinted after her, I was never quick enough to catch up. I'd tried going to her office, only to be told by her secretary - a soft-spoken young man with curling green feathers instead of hair - that she was busy, and not even able to make an appointment with me.

That left only two options that I could think of. The first was to nail the exam on the last Friday in September. Whenever I'd excelled at an exam last year, Professor Potsdam always showed up to congratulate me, and award me however many merits she thought I deserved. I figured that as long as I excelled at the test, she couldn't dodge me, but of course, I'd been wrong. When I'd emerged from the dungeon, flushed with exertion and victory, it wasn't Professor Potsdam waiting for me outside - it was Professor Terrec.

"Ah," he'd said, noting something on a clipboard he held in his hands. "Miss Moon. I am gratified to see that you have been paying attention in my classes. More work needed on your warding spells, however."

"Yes, sir," I'd said, unable to hide my disappointment.

Professor Terrec had given me a curious look. "Is there anything else, Miss Moon?"

"Oh - no sir. Thank you, sir," I'd said before trudging off. No Professor Potsdam and no merits. Just my luck.

"C'mon Eliza," Ahmed says, interrupting my train of thought. "If you shower really quick we can make the vans to the mall."

"The mall?" I repeat. "The mall is super boring though."

"Less boring than the library," Ahmed says. "They've got a new coffee shop where the bakery used to be - it's a chain, so that's lame, but I'll buy you a fancy coffee drink." His voice takes on a wheedling tone at this last.

"Well-ll," I start, uncertain. Ahmed did skip breakfast and time me, so if the mall is his idea of fun…

"I'm _sick_ of being cooped up at school all the time," Ahmed says, with sudden vehemence. "Seriously, Eliza, if I don't get out of here in another hour I'm gonna start setting stuff on fire just for the funsies."

"Well, I guess," I say. The last thing I need is for Professor Terrec finding out I was party to boredom-related arson. "Should we ask Suki to come?"

"She's got detention," Ahmed says. "She tried to send Chester in to negotiate with the manticores." He gives a half-shrug. "It didn't work. Anyway, we don't always have to hang out with Suki."

"I just feel bad for her," I say. "She's one of us. Losers' Club solidarity, right?"

"Solidarity doesn't have to mean inseparability," Ahmed says. "Anyway, she was lucky. I heard from my roommate Orrin that another five freshmen got expelled for not getting through the exam. And two juniors, too."

"How does Orrin know?" I ask, although I'd heard Ellen mutter something to Virginia about it last night.

"He failed and got detention too," Ahmed replies. "He says he nearly got expelled himself, but I don't buy it. All the students that got kicked out were wildseed, and Orrin's family is magic."

"Huh," I say, not able to come up with anything else. There had been one or two freshmen in my class last year who'd been expelled during the first few weeks, most of them wildseeds, kicked out for the crime of not attending their classes. But I can't remember anyone getting thrown out of school just for failing the first exam. "Your sure Orrin's right about that? Maybe they just weren't going to class."

Ahmed shrugs. "He could be exaggerating I guess, but… I dunno. I don't put it past Professor Terrec, do you?"

"Not really," I say, and then am suddenly filled with the urge to get off campus as quickly as possible. "Okay," I say. "Let's go to the mall."

"I knew you'd see the light," Ahmed says, grinning. "Now go take a shower; I'm not getting seen in public with Sweaterella."

I give Ahmed a light punch on the arm, and start jogging in the direction of Horse Hall.

I haven't been to the mall since last term, and it's as tiny and dull as ever, new coffee shop notwithstanding. Ahmed and I spend most of the morning browsing the magic shop; peering at the glass case that houses the sextants and one very complicated looking - not to mention expensive - astrolabe. We test out a few of the wands on display, shooting sparks and ribbons of light out of the tips, until Mr. Abelard, the shopkeeper, gives us a side-eye, and we rush to put them back, snickering and nudging each other. We end our browsing by trying on some of the magical glasses on one shelf, peering at the effect in a tiny mirror on the wall.

"I like them!" Ahmed says, scrutinizing me through a pair of wild, spiral-lensed spectacles. "Very sophisticated. I bet your husband would approve."

This makes me frown a little, and I take off the half-rim glasses I'd been trying on and put them back on the shelf. I'd had another letter from my husband this morning, and while I'm happy that he's dedicated in terms of the quantity of his letters, this one is as brief and impersonal as the first. It's as though I'm just an afterthought, a task to get done, an irritant to be fobbed off with a few words tossed in her direction. It makes me feel as though he doesn't even see me as his wife any more, and a pair of spectacles, however sophisticated, isn't going to help.

"Come on - they're only ten dollars," Ahmed says, putting his own pair back. "Aren't you going to get them?"

"Nah," I say. "I have to save up my money - elections are in two weeks."

"I can't believe you're running for treasurer again," Ahmed says. "Getting up that early has got to be some nefarious form of torture."

"I think I'm getting used to it," I say, which is partially true. And besides, now that I'm running again, getting up early has become even more of a habit.

But even with that consideration, I have my own reasons to want to continue in my role of treasurer. The first is that my husband's letters are coming into the school in blank envelopes, revealing that I'm their intended recipient only when I touch them. How they get into the school without an address, I have no idea, but it's very convenient in keeping gossip to a minimum. I don't want to have to tell the next treasurer to send all blank envelopes to me - or worse, to have to explain to Professor Grabiner that he'll have to write my name in actual ink now that I've lost my position.

And part of me thinks - well, hopes, I guess - that if I continue on as treasurer I might manage to get onto Professor Terrec's good side. Hieronymous was, after all, initially impressed with my work ethic in the student council; he'd given me (well, Minnie anyway) his first real compliment after our November fundraiser, when my candles had been bestsellers. If I can show Professor Terrec that I'm a hard worker, he'll have to come around.

_Won't he?_

"Well, it's all a dumb popularity contest anyway," Ahmed grouses, and he does have a point. If there's one thing I'm not this year, it's popular. Still, I'd managed to beat out the very well-known Jacob Blaising for the position last year, and that has to count for something. Who knows, maybe whoever runs would be even more of an outcast than me - though the only two people I can think of that fit that description are Ahmed and Suki. And know for a fact that Suki's going to run against Minnie for president again. Apparently the spirits have been insistent.

"I know I'll win this year - right, Chester?" Suki had said on Friday morning at breakfast, and whatever Chester had said in return, neither Ahmed nor I'd had the heart to contradict her.

"Coffee?" Ahmed suggests, and I'm more than ready to acquiesce.

We wind our way down the halls from the magic shop to the café, dodging fellow Iris Academy students as we go. When we arrive, the café tables are mostly peopled with Iris students - including Virginia, Ellen and Pastel at one table sharing an enormous post-exam cookie. It's just like the end of exams last year - only then, I'd been invited to share the celebration.

I try not to look at them as I slide into place in line, but I think Ahmed sees what's going on. He says, casually, "Y'know, it's gonna be, like, the last nice weekend out. Let's sit outside."

"Yeah," I say, grateful for the excuse.

Ahmed buys us both fancy drinks with whipped cream on top - his is some sort of pumpkin spice concoction with espresso; mine is called a chai latte, which I choose in remembrance of my last year's not-a-date with Professor Grabiner. Ahmed also buys us two pumpkin scones, and we take our drinks and pastries to a bench outside the mall's entrance.

Both the drinks and the scones are disappointing. My chai tastes more like sugar than spice, and the oily, melting cream on top does nothing to help matters. The scone is both the flavor and consistency of pumpkin spiced cardboard. I give up trying to eat it after a few bites, and crumble it in its bag instead.

"There's this really expensive coffee shop opened up in the Village?" Ahmed says after a few minutes of sipping in silence. "And the fanciest, most expensive coffee they have is this stuff that's from beans gathered out of civet cat shit."

I consider this. "Have you tried it?" I ask. Ahmed doesn't talk much about his family or home life, but from what I've been able to glean, they live in Manhattan and have some pretty serious money. Drinking fancy cat shit coffee might be one of those things rich New Yorkers do, for all I know.

"Nah," he says. "Just the idea grosses me out. But this?" He holds up his pumpkin coffee. "This _tastes_ like it's been gathered out of civet cat shit."

I burst into giggles at this assessment. "Yeah, my chai is pretty grim too," I say. "Have you been to The Glen? Their chai is really good." I nod in the direction of the invisible restaurant.

"Yeah," Ahmed says. "That's where I went on my first date with Damien."

I pause, unsure of how to proceed. This is the first time Ahmed has mentioned Damien to me by name. Should I act surprised? Pretend I hadn't heard the nasty, gossipy story that Jacob had told me? Or act like I know all about it?

In the end, I decide to act casual. "Oh yeah? How did you like it?"

"Really good," Ahmed replies. "Reminded me of those modernist cuisine places, like wd~50 or Ko. But with magic, not science. What did you think of it?"

"Pretty good," I say noncommittally. I'd only had the chai when I'd gone with Professor Grabiner, but had been treated to a meal there on my wedding day by Professor Potsdam. I'd been so mortified, though, I'd barely tasted the food that had been set in front of me, so I decide to stick with what I can remember. "Oh - and the dessert, those berries? Those were good."

"Oh, yeah. Those," Ahmed says, and with that, we seem to exhaust The Glen as a conversation topic.

I take another sip of my chai and grimace - it's getting cold, which does nothing to improve its flavor. "So," I say with the careful deliberation of someone about to step into unfamiliar territory, "how did you and Damien meet?"

Ahmed doesn't answer at first, but when I get up the courage to glance over at him, he doesn't seem angry. He seems embarrassed, but also a little pleased. I consider that maybe this is the first time someone's asked him about Damien without being disapproving or judgy.

_I know how that feels_, I think, and even if I don't much like Damien, I can certainly feel sympathetic to Ahmed.

"At the Dark Dance, last year," Ahmed says, and I feel a little jolt of surprise go up my spine. If that's true, the two of them met right after I'd told Damien that we couldn't be friends, and he'd stormed off.

"Really?" I say, trying to sound casual. "So did he ask you to the dance with him or something?"

"Nope," says Ahmed. "I mean, the Dark Dance was a total nightmare, right? All those people in one room, and no one can see anything 'cos it's dark, and everyone jostling into each other, and you don't know is it your roommate or some creature from the black reaches of cosmic nothingness?"

Actually, I'd thought the dark dance had been daringly fun, but I decide not to contradict Ahmed's description of the event.

"I had to get out of there just to catch my breath," Ahmed continues, "and I saw _him_ ducking into the classroom across the hall. It was dark, but I mean, you could tell it was him. The wings."

I nod. Even in the dark, Damien's silhouette would be pretty distinctive.

"So I stand there for a second, like, 'what should I do?' I mean, I couldn't take my eyes off him the first time I saw him. That skin? That hair? Utterly gorgeous."

I suspect that Ahmed and I have some very different ideas about what constitutes "utterly gorgeous," but I can't deny that Damien was - is - quite captivating.

"So I go in after him, and before I can really stop and think what I'm doing, I say to him, like, 'you okay?' And he whips around but when he sees me, he just smiles."

"So was he okay?" I ask.

Ahmed shrugs. "He said he was just upset - some bitchy girl he liked had been really rude to him after he asked her if they could be friends."

I feel a chill go through me, as though I'd been doused with a bucket of ice water. A girl? That he'd_ liked_? It couldn't be - he'd told me that he didn't like me _that_ way, that he'd just wanted us to be friends. But then, what if he'd said it to prevent me from - well, doing exactly what I'd done? Rejecting him?

"Did he say who it was?" I ask, hoping my voice sounds steady.

"Hm-mm," says Ahmed, shaking his head. "I think it was that senior though, Angela Kirsch? I guess they used to date or something."

"Oh yeah!" I say, knowing that I'm agreeing a little too quickly, and not caring. "She was the worst."

"I _know_," Ahmed says. "So anyway, without even thinking I just blurt out 'can I kiss you and make it all better?'" He laughs, as though even now he can't believe his own boldness.

"So what did he say?"

"He just stood there without saying anything for a minute, and I was like 'oh my God, I just sexually harassed a senior, I'm gonna get my ass handed to me.' But he didn't do anything. And then just when I was about to completely lose it and run back to my room, he said 'no... But you can dance with me.'" Ahmed shakes his head. "And he just grabs my hand and pulls me in, and we just start slow dancing right there, no music or anything. It was for real the most romantic thing that had ever happened to me in my whole life."

I have no trouble believing it. As he says these things, Ahmed seems to glow, radiant, and I gaze at him, awestruck, until I remember Jacob's story. How Damien hurt Ahmed so badly he'd had to go to the infirmary for a night.

Ahmed turns to me, and notices my expression. "What's wrong?" he says, frowning.

"Oh - nothing," I say, hurriedly looking down at my chai cup. "I just-" I flounder for something to say. "I mean, you're in love with Damien, right?"

"Ye-es," says Ahmed, cautious.

"How do you know?" I ask. "How do you know when you're in love? And don't say 'you just know,' because that is a total cliché."

"Ah," says Ahmed. "Husband trouble?"

Now it's my turn to feel embarrassed. "Not exactly," I say. "Just trying to figure some stuff out."

Ahmed takes a sip of his drink, pulls a face, and pours the rest of the coffee out onto a bedraggled-looking flower bed by our bench. After a longish silence, he says "here's what I think. When I'm around other people, I feel like I have to put on this huge elaborate act around them. Not just because of the magic stuff, I mean, but so I can look like a normal person, not a complete weirdo loser."

"Even around your family?" I ask.

"_Especially_ around my family," he replies. "I'm the freak of the family and that's _before_ I found out I could do magic. All my brothers and sisters went to Trinity - well, one of my sisters went to Chapin, but still, right? And here I am, the youngest, in this backwater school in Vermont where they don't even really know what I study? My Dad thinks it's an art school, and I think he'd be less disappointed in me if he actually knew about the magic!" He gives a hard, bitter little laugh. "He has this master plan that all of us are either going to go into investment banking, and have huge families and live in New York or Dubai, and when he retires he'll go around and stay with each of us like he's friggin' King Lear. And they all buy it! Like, my oldest brother? He's only twenty-five, he's at Goldman Sachs, and he already has two kids and another coming. And all of us are supposed to do exactly the same thing. I think the most rebellion they've considered is if one of us decides to go to medical school."

"So," I venture, wondering if there's a good way to ask this, "they don't know that you-"

"Date guys?" Ahmed asks, gloomily.

"Well, I was going to say 'date demons,' but..." I say, but the joke is a lame one, and Ahmed doesn't laugh. He crumples his empty coffee cup in his hands, pops the crumples out, and crumples it again.

"Just my mom, and only kinda," he says, finally. "I was helping her with dinner over winter break last year, and I out of nowhere asked her what she would do if I brought a girl home from school next break. She got this huge grin on her face, and she said 'I'd feed her!' So then I asked what she'd do if I brought a guy home instead? And she goes quiet for a real long time, but then says 'I would feed him,' without looking at me. We didn't talk about it after that."

"That doesn't sound so bad, though," I say. "It wasn't 'throw you out of the house and never speak to you again.'"

"Yeah, nice consolation prize," says Ahmed, and I look away, abashed. "Anyway," he continues, "she'd take my Dad's side if it came down to it; she always does. And then school. Like, all that talk about love in all its forms, and even the student council president likes guys, I thought maybe I found a place where I wouldn't be treated like some freak because of who I love." He crumples the coffee cup again. "But I hadn't. Not because I picked a guy, but because I picked the _wrong_ guy."

Thinking about it from Ahmed's perspective, it does all seem unfair. And after all, aren't we sort of in the same position?

"Anyway, the point of all that is, I have to be someone else in front of everyone. School, home, doesn't matter. But when I'm with Damien? I can be myself. The _most_ myself. And I know he loves me - not in spite of who I am, but _because_ of who I am. And that's how you know you're in love. I guess."

_But he hurt you._

The thought shoots through my head, and I only just have the wherewithal to keep it from exiting my mouth. The words hang between us in the air, unspoken and heavy, as though full of some unidentifiable liquid.

"So," Ahmed says, breaking the awkward silence. "I didn't mean to rant like that. I guess I just needed to vent."

"No problem," I say. "Thanks for telling me. You gave me some stuff to think about."

"Well just remember who's the font of all your wisdom when you're living it up with your professor in some rich person château. I expect an invite for the summer."

I smirk at this. "No châteaus in my near future, just divorce. And who knows if I'll even see him again after that. He's not making me feel very... wanted."

Ahmed pauses as though to consider this. "Well, maybe you should make him feel wanted."

"I think that would just weird him out," I say.

Ahmed shrugs. "Worth a shot."

"Thanks, font of all wisdom. Wanna head back? I bet we could get some white magic in before dinner."

Ahmed groans, but he gets up and heads toward the vans without further protest.

I don't manage much white magic before dinner. Ahmed gives me the slip - writing a letter home, he says, but I bet it's to Damien - so I wind up in the library by myself, zoning out over my textbook. And at dinner, when Ahmed's teasing Suki and helping her mend the scratch marks and scuffs inflicted upon Chester in his first attempt at interspecies diplomacy, I keep spacing out.

All I can think of is how to reconcile my sadness at Ahmed's story of isolation with what I know happened between him and Damien. I know Damien's bad news, but how do you tell that to someone who's in love - and who seems to need that love so badly?

The only thing I can think of is the time I'd gone to Professor Grabiner about Minnie and Kyo - but that had been different. Minnie hadn't been in love with Kyo, she just hadn't known how to get away from him. But then, Kyo had never actually hurt Minnie that I knew of - he'd just made threats.

All through getting ready for, then getting into bed, I wrestle with the thought that I ought to be doing something. I'm Ahmed's friend, and I should try to help him. But the whole thing seems like too much for me to handle - I need help from someone who knows what to do. But now that Hieronymous is gone, there's no one here who will help me - even Professor Potsdam is ignoring me.

But it's then that I remember what I'm supposed to do next week - my second plan to get to Professor Potsdam. In order to run for class treasurer, I have to tell Professor Potsdam that I plan to run - and it has to be her, not any other teacher in the school. She can't refuse to talk to me then, and I can ask her about Damien then - and about Professor Terrec.

Comforted, I feel myself start to drift off, snatches of the words I want to say to Professor Potsdam drifting through my head. But in my dream that night, I'm chasing Ahmed through the Iris Academy dungeon, shouting the four words I couldn't say to him today. But Ahmed doesn't turn around. He doesn't hear.


	8. Chapter 8

Friday afternoon finds me waiting in the anteroom of Professor Potsdam's office. I'm not alone - there's a whole group of students waiting to tell Professor Potsdam their intention to run for student council this year.

I'm sitting next to Suki, and I hope, rather than believe, that I've managed to convince her that Chester will not make a good potential running mate in the election. All through lunch Ahmed called her "Little Caligula" until she threw a piece of dry cornbread at his head.

I look around the room, trying to recognize which students are fellow sophomores - and who might be grappling for my position. No Virginia and no Ellen - thank goodness, as I don't think I could handle running against either of them. I do see Jacob and Minnie in one corner, though. Minnie must be running for President again, and as for Jacob - well, I beat him last year, didn't I? And anyway, I remind myself, I have more important things to think about right now than school politics.

I sidle over to where Jacob and Minnie are whispering together. "Hey," I say, "have either of you gotten to talk to Professor Potsdam about-"

But Jacob turns on me, looking irritated at having been interrupted. "Oh _hey_ Eliza," he says, affecting a casual drawl. "Running for treasurer again?" He smirks. "Good luck."

"Same to you," I snap, all thoughts of our Initiation picnic camaraderie vanishing. "Feel like getting your ass kicked again this year?"

Jacob scoffs. "Hardly," he says. "I'm not running for treasurer, I'm running for secretary."

This throws me, and I can't think of any clever retorts. "For what?"

Minnie chimes in. "Sophomores have more responsibility, so we get another position. And then juniors get a vice president."

"Oh," I say. It makes sense, I guess.

"But if you didn't even know _that_, I mean, I just wonder how well you'll handle all those responsibilities this year," Jacob says. Even Minnie looks like she's trying to keep from giggling at this, and I feel a sudden rush of rage. Minnie knows full well that all I knew about student council responsibilities were what she and Professor Grabiner had told me - and Minnie had gotten very flaky near the end of the year.

"Oh, I don't know," I say. "Considering I handled my responsibilities _and_ the president's last year, I think I'll do just fine."

This stops both Minnie and Jacob cold; Jacob scowling, and Minnie looking as shocked as if I'd slapped her. I hadn't meant to be so mean, and I open my mouth to try to take it back, when I'm interrupted by a voice behind me, full of false metallic sweetness.

"Hi E_li_za!"

I don't have to turn around to know it's Pastel, but I do turn. "What?"

"Running for treasurer again?" she asks, but doesn't wait for me to answer before continuing. "I just wasn't sure why you would even bother this year now that Professor Grabiner isn't here."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

Pastel giggles. "Oh," she says, "we all know that's why you ran last year. 'I thought I could benefit from your wisdom, _sir_,'" she says, putting on a mock-simpering voice. Behind me, both Minnie and Jacob burst out laughing.

I open my mouth, but before I can say anything, Pastel coos "does he like it when you call him _sir_?" There's a notable increase in the pitch and hysteria in the laughter behind me. So instead of retorting, I stalk off, pushing past Pastel to where I was sitting with Suki before. "Good _lu_-uck!" sings Pastel to my back.

I sit, cheeks burning, listening to the laughter._ I knew William told Virginia about that election but I can't believe he - or she - told_ Pastel. _I hate this stupid school, I could be in London right now_.

"Do me a favor," I mutter to Suki. "Figure out a way to get Chester up to Godzilla-size and set him loose."

Suki beams at me. "I've been trying to do that all week!" she says brightly.

This does nothing to cheer me up. I rest my chin in my hands. _I_ hate _this school. I hate the students, I hate the teachers, I hate the classes, but most of all I hate-_

Professor Potsdam sticks her head out of the door to her office. "Eliza!" she says. "Come in, dear!"

I drag myself out of my chair and slink toward Professor Potsdam, trying to ignore the fresh snickers that erupt behind my back.

Once the door is safely closed behind us, Professor Potsdam is all brisk business. "Now gosling," she says, "which position will you run for this year?"

I consider telling her to forget it, and backing out of the election altogether. It takes most of my courage to come out and say "treasurer, ma'am."

"Marvelous!" she says, noting this down. "Now, please let Tolliver - my secretary - know what you'd like to order for your campaign, and drop the money off with him by tomorrow, and you'll be all set."

"But," I say, "Isn't Professor Terrec going to talk to me about my campaign?"

"Oh, bless you dear, no," Professor Potsdam says. "You're old hat at this now! Assistance is only for freshmen and first-time campaigners. Yves will be helping Ms. Rao run for treasurer this year."

For a moment I'm shocked - and then I'm furious. _That little hypocrite._ All that mockery about running for school office just to get to Professor Grabiner - and she's doing the same to get to Professor Terrec. I think of her fawning over him in the front row, waving her hand in the air, wings trembling, and I'm almost paralyzed with disgust.

"Now if there isn't anything else," Professor Potsdam says, scribbling something in her notebook.

"Actually, there is," I say, and before I can lose my courage, I blurt "Did you tell Professor Terrec to expel that girl?"

"Hmm?" Professor Potsdam says absently, as though I'd asked her a question about the weather and she hadn't quite heard.

"That freshman girl, with the voice," I persist. "Who had the mp3 player. And all those students after the exam."

"Ah," Professor Potsdam says. "I see you've been listening to the freshman gossip."

I flush. There's something about the way she says it that makes me feel as though I'm the one being careless about my fellow students. "But-" I start, but Professor Potsdam interrupts me.

"I did not tell him to expel those students," she says. "Yves performed those actions under his own authority."

"_What_ authority?" I say. "You're the headmistress!"

Professor Potsdam looks up at me, and she isn't smiling. "That is true. And Yves has, I think, already told you what he is, if you were listening."

"He said he was here for our safety," I venture, "because the council - he's from the council?"

Professor Potsdam gives me a small smile, but it isn't a cheerful one. She almost looks as though she's sorry for me that it took me so long to figure this out. "And I'm afraid," she says, "that while I certainly do have a great deal of authority over this school, it is the council that has authority over me."

"But-" I protest, sputtering, "he can't just be allowed to terrify all the freshmen-"

"Oh, I think Yves feels that a little healthy terror is good for all the students here," Professor Potsdam breezes. "The practice of magic is quite a dangerous one - as you know full well. Our job is not only to teach the use of magic, but to instill in our students the proper respect for its power. But I don't think this is anything new to you."

Professor Potsdam is right - this isn't new. It's the conversation I'd had with Hieronymous, that weekend after he'd threatened me with the dungeons, because he'd thought I had told everyone about our marriage. He'd admitted to me that he had been trying to scare me, but more, that he tried to scare all of his students, because that was the only way they'd respect what magic can do.

But even so, this is different. Hieronymous had been trying to _keep_ me from getting expelled, not trying to make it happen. And even if he'd had a special incentive to protect me, he dealt with Donald's pranks, with Suki's bizarre take on exams, and even with Kyo when he got legitimately scary, with reasonable responses - not automatic expulsion.

"Don't you think that was a little disproportionate?" I ask. "With that freshman girl - it was just an mp3 player. And those other freshmen, it was only their first exam! Don't you think they deserve another chance?"

"Whether I think so or not, it isn't up to me to decide," Professor Potsdam says. "And it's over and done with, at any rate."

My shoulders slump and I only just keep myself from heaving an audible sigh. There would be no help from Professor Potsdam - not about Professor Terrec, and not about Damien either. I stand to leave, trying to muster a bit of dignity in my retreat.

"Eliza," Professor Potsdam says behind me. I'm feeling so frustrated that I'm tempted to just walk out of the office, but there's something in her voice - an edge to it - that makes me turn around.

"I should be very careful of Yves, if I were you," she says.

"Why's that?" I ask, my voice coming out sullen and defiant.

Professor Potsdam has dropped her cheerful smile. "I believe I once told you that you're no longer gambling with only your own life. This will remain true until you are divorced, and I suggest that you keep it in mind."

I consider this. I know she means Hieronymous, because although he'd only married me to protect me from the manus, now that he's made the promise, he has to keep it for a year and a day. If I'm expelled before I can get divorced, I lose my magic, my marriage, and my protection - but then, what happens to Hieronymous?

With a sinking sensation, I realize - what happens is, Hieronymous loses his own magic. His mind would get wiped, his entire life as he once knew it would be gone. Just thinking about that prospect, and the fact that it could be my fault, makes me suddenly nauseated.

"Professor Terrec wouldn't just expel me," I say to Professor Potsdam. "Not if he knows what would happen to Hieronymous if-"

"Oh, do you think so?" Professor Potsdam says blandly. "Confidence is such a fine thing, and it does come so easily when one is young."

Tiny tendrils of horror seem to anchor themselves in my arms, my shoulders, my stomach. "But you couldn't just let him-"

"I think I've made it quite clear that I have no authority over Yves' actions," Professor Potsdam says.

"Then it should be Hieronymous," I say, and it comes out in a squeak, higher than my normal voice. "He promised to protect me - if you can't, then _he_ should! He should be here!"

I seem to recall that you were given that choice," Professor Potsdam says, still unfazed. "Now that you have made it, you'll have to endure its consequences. Hieronymous isn't the only one who's made a vow, you know," she continues. "Do try to remember that. Now," she says, her familiar cheerful smile returning, and transforming her face, "If you'll just send Ms. Sato in when you go out?"

Exiting Professor Potsdam's office is like walking through a deep mist. I can barely see my surroundings, and any sounds I manage to hear are thick, syrupy, too low. Even my own voice, curtly telling Suki to go in, sounds elongated, stretched, as though I'm speaking in slow motion.

I had planned on going to the library after talking to Professor Potsdam, but I find myself veering out the doors and into the courtyard instead. There's a breeze in the air today - I'd felt it during this morning's run. It feels oily on my skin, like the fetid breath of someone dying. I settle on a bench, staring at a decaying plot of posies and try to think.

Have I made the wrong decision to come back to the US? It hadn't felt wrong, that night in Northumberland, when I'd told Hieronymous that I was going back to Iris Academy. It had felt right because it was the difficult decision - the one I didn't want to make. Like food - the worse it tastes, the better it is for you - I had chosen based on what my instinct had told me was the Right Thing to Do.

But what if I'd been wrong? What if my deprivation has no purpose - what if I'm doing some kind of _harm_ by being here, instead of with my husband?

_Hieronymous isn't the only one who's made a vow_, Professor Potsdam had said. She's right - I've made a vow too, and I think back to the day of my wedding.

The dungeons, lit only by sputtering candles, the stone walls lichen-covered and damp. My disappointment, bordering on despair, at realizing that my wedding would take place in this dark, secret place, when in my (admittedly, not very frequent) wedding daydreams, I had always pictured sunlight, fresh air, and someone who loved me. His sudden, striking appearance in wedding robes, more colorful than anything I'd ever seen him wear before - or since. The basket, its ribbons crossed over our hands as we gripped the handle. He'd promised me his wisdom and his protection, and I had promised him... I had promised him...

_Kindness!_ I remember suddenly. _I promised my kindness and my courage._

Thinking about it now, it seems like some horrible joke. After how nasty I'd been to Minnie today, after I'd wished for Chester to be set loose to Godzilla the school - kindness from me? You might as well ask for water from a rock.

Then again, I'd promised my courage, and I think I can safely say I've given that in spades. Hadn't I gone to Hieronymous with my worries about Kyo when no one, not even cocky Jacob Blaising, would dare? Hadn't I taken on Mr. Lewis and Aloysius - Isolde - Grabiner at the cost of my own life?

_Fine,_ I think. _Maybe I can't be kind. But I can sure as hell be brave._

I've spent so much time fantasizing about what Hieronymous would do if he here here, but I haven't considered what he'd do about Professor Terrec. I try to consider it now - how would he react at the news of the wildseed girl's expulsion? I imagine him pacing his rooms, furious, spitting multisyllabic invectives - because after all, wasn't Professor Terrec's action exactly the opposite of what Hieronymous had tried to do in all his years at Iris Academy? He'd spent his time trying to protect students - to instill respect for magic, yes, but also to make sure that they received their education. He would never have approved of expelling someone without even giving them a chance. And, I realize with a sinking sensation in my gut, he wouldn't just sit by and watch as Professor Terrec went around expelling whomever he pleased. Just like with Kyo, Hieronymous wouldn't act like Professor Potsdam, waiting for someone else to take action. Hieronymous would _do_ something about it. And if he's not here to do it…

"Then it has to be me," I half-whisper to myself.

My brain immediately rebels against the thought. _No, it can't be me. I'm just a student, I could get detention, get expelled. _But somehow, none of those excuses quite wash in the face of my remembered vow. _You promised_, I think. _You promised to be brave._

And that's when I get a sudden idea. It'll take some planning, and some help, but if I can pull it off, then maybe I can show Professor Terrec that I'm willing to stand up to his authority while ensuring that I can keep my place both in school, and in the magical community itself. As for help, I think I know just the person who'd be willing to lend a hand. I hop off my bench, and dash back to the student buildings, heading straight to Toad Hall.

Ahmed's incredulous about my idea at first, but I can tell his interest is piqued. By the time I finish telling him what I mean to do, he's nodding along with me.

"Okay," he says, "I'll help. But on one condition."

I'm too relieved to say anything but "sure!"

He smiles his triumph. "I get to pick your campaign name and order your supplies."

"Okay, I guess," I say, a little taken aback. "What did you have in mind?"

"You'll find out on Tuesday."

"I dunno..." I say.

"C'mon, trust me," Ahmed says. "What were you last year, the Dragon?'"

"Yeah," I say. "Professor Grabiner said it was familiar and traditional or something."

"Well it doesn't suit you," Ahmed replies. "This year, we're going for meaningful and original."

"I guess." I'd only decided on 'The Dragon' because I was so intimidated by Professor Grabiner's presence, I couldn't think of anything creative, which now seems like a terrible excuse. "Okay," I say. "name and supplies are up to you."

"All right!" Ahmed says. "Meet me in the courtyard on Tuesday afternoon - I wanna have everything set up for when you get there." His grin is almost wicked, and I wonder if I've made the right decision, handing this part of my campaign over. But I've made my choice, so I give Ahmed a fistful of five dollar bills - my allowance up to this point in the year - and tell him to go for it.

I struggle with impatience all through Monday and Tuesday's classes. Ahmed is nowhere to be found - he told me at breakfast he had gym on both days, but I think he probably skipped classes to set up. By the time red magic class is finished, I can hardly contain myself, and I race to the courtyard.

Most of the campaigning students are still in the middle of setting up their tables, but mine is fully finished. I skid to a halt in front of it, digging my heels into the grass as my jaw drops in disbelief. Two posters flank the table, on which are neatly arranged badges. A huge banner hangs above everything - midnight blue with letters in silver script that read "Eliza Moon - the North Star."

The posters bear the same script, along with a logo of a crescent moon holding a seven pointed star in its tines. The badges, too, are moon and star shaped, made of shimmery silver paper with dark blue lettering that reads "Vote Eliza!"

"Oh my God, Ahmed!" I squeak.

Ahmed, who had stationed himself behind the table, steps out to me to survey the table. "Whaddaya think?" he asks, a little shyly.

"It's _spectacular_," I breathe. "The North Star - I love it!"

"I thought it implies a nice sense of constancy," Ahmed muses beside me. "Eliza Moon, keeping her head while all about her are losing theirs and blaming it on her."

"It's perfect," I agree, though secretly thinking that I can do without the "blaming it on me" part.

"Did you see Pastel's table yet?" Ahmed asks. "She's the 'Crystal Rose.' Everything pink. I mean, in a way it's smart, it's sort of her signature color, but - and I'm not saying this isn't completely immature and dumb - there's a lot of guys who won't want to wear pink rose badges on their uniforms."

"We'd better get them some silver moons, then," I say with a grin, and both of us step behind the table to start campaigning the students who begin to stream out of the school doors.

But Ahmed's real surprise comes on Wednesday afternoon. I spent most of it racing through the halls, putting up posters where I can find a space. When I get outside for courtyard time, I find my table piled high - not with badges, but with rows of cupcakes. They're vanilla with big silver crescent moon ornaments made of chocolate, and tiny silver star-shaped sprinkles nestled in folds of fluffy white icing.

"Ahmed!" I shout, too shocked to be pleased. I remember seeing the price list for personalized cupcakes last year, and they're almost prohibitively expensive. "How the hell could you afford these?"

Ahmed shrugs. "My parents send me extra allowance every week."

"But that's not allowed!"

Another shrug. "No one's caught me yet."

I survey the table of cakes half in astonishment and half in disbelief until Ahmed breaks the silence.

"Look," he says. "The first and last time I ran for student government was in the fifth grade. I ran for president against this girl - I can't even remember her name anymore. But I got better grades than her, and I was way more popular, so I figured I was set, nothing to worry about, right? But the day of the election, she got up and said that the basis of her campaign was, she'd get the school to sell ice cream in the cafeteria."

"She said she could control the cafeteria selection in the fifth grade?" I ask, incredulous.

Ahmed shakes his head in remembered disgust. "No way she could actually do it. We were nine years old and the school was doing its crackdown on junk food. She knew it. I knew it. But the other kids? _They_ didn't know it. She won in a landslide. So I learned my lesson - in an election, you can't win unless you promise the electorate some sugar."

"I'm still paying you back for all these," I say.

"Nope," says Ahmed. "This is personal." He turns, nudges me, so I look where he indicates. He points to Pastel's pink-festooned table, where she'd been offering free hugs - my own campaign strategy from last year, I note with irritation, and one which Pastel took liberal advantage of. Pastel is shooting a gimlet eye at our table, taking in the crowd of students that have clustered around it.

"Last year I caught her in the hall trying to hit on Damien," Ahmed says. "He said no, but still - big mistake. That snotty little sylph is going _down_."

Now I grin, and we high five each other, palms coming together in a satisfying smack. "Okay," I say, "let's get these voters some cupcakes!" This is greeted by several whoops behind me, and I turn to see that our display has attracted quite a crowd. We start dispensing cupcakes and badges to the growing crush of students who swarm our table. Even Virginia, who'd been helping Pastel campaign at her table, sneaks over and swipes a cupcake when she seems to think I'm not looking. I try to grin at her, to let her know she's welcome to a cupcake, but she scurries off without looking at me. Pastel isn't having nearly so much success at her table, so I suppose that's comfort enough.

By the time dinner comes around, I'm pleasantly exhausted, and completely out of cupcakes - except for one that Ahmed saved. We split it, sitting on the table, which is now empty except for crumbs and a few wrappers.

"This is going to spoil my dinner," I remark.

"Worth it," Ahmed says, his mouth full of cake and icing. "This was probably the most fun week I've had all year."

"I'm glad someone had fun," I say. "I'm getting sick of politics."

"This?" Ahmed asks. "This is cake." He swallows, then adds "I mean figuratively, it's cake. If you're really going to go through with - y'know, your plan-"

"Yep," I say.

Ahmed finishes his cupcake half, licking icing from his fingers. "You don't have to," he says. "Just do a regular speech. Run for treasurer for real. You don't need to prove anything."

"I know," I say, "but actually, I think I _do _have to do this. I promised to be brave."

"Well," says Ahmed, sounding resigned, "good luck. You'll need it."

The sun begins to go down over the mountains to the west, casting gold and mauve beams through the lattice-work of branches and leaves.

"If I had any good luck," I say, "I don't think I'd know what to do with it."


	9. Chapter 9

On Friday morning, I don't so much wake up as simply get up. I don't feel as though I've slept at all, though I must have - I kept dreaming over and over that I'd been late to the student council assembly, and that once I'd raced there, I'd forgotten what to say.

_Talk about un-original_, I think as I lace up my running shoes in the dark. _Even your stress dreams are clichéd._

I jog through the silent hallway to the Horse Hall exit, my shoes making muffled padding sounds on the tile. I pass election posters - my own, blue and silver; Jacob's, orange and yellow; Minnie's, indigo and gold. Suki's poster is arresting - it depicts her riding on the back of a Godzilla-sized Chester, him breathing fire, her gesturing as though ordering him to smite her enemies. "Vote Suki," it reads, "The Rampage!" I don't know whether to be amused or concerned.

It's the first really cool morning of fall, and although the outdoor air only has the force of a breeze, it's chill enough to nip at my skin - autumn developing the first of its teeth. I decide it's not worth it to cast a heat spell on myself, but to warm up by practicing my sprint start. I prop my foot against a bench, digging my fingers into the hardening soil, whispering "ready... set... go!" before taking off on the path that leads out of the courtyard and onto the twisting mountain road.

I'm halfway to the hairpin turn that serves as my turnaround point before I have to slow, and when I get to the curve, I don't yet feel the need to turn around. Still, there's something about the view that I find arresting, and so I stop at the edge of the road against the metal barrier that comes up to my hips, looking out over the terrain beyond.

The trees are still fully green - no autumn foliage yet - and obscure the roads and pathways below, so that they appear as an unbroken sea of undulating green. The sea stretches before me, making me feel tiny, insignificant. It makes me think, inexplicably, about a car trip that I took with my parents when I was younger - I couldn't have been more than nine or ten. We'd driven up to Montreal, a long drive through mountains just like these, and I remember feeling oddly separate from everything around me - including my parents in the front seat - as though I were moving in a tiny, warm bubble on a path over which I had no control. The memory gives me an odd, melancholic sense of nostalgia.

"I miss being young," I say, softly but out loud. The breeze seems to catch my voice in its teeth and carries it aloft, over the arboreal sea, over the mountains into Canada. It's an effort to turn, to begin to jog and then run back up the hill toward school, and to whatever fate awaits me.

I have white magic on schedule that day, and fidget all the way through. Professor Potsdam's trilling, high-pitched voice - usually a welcome change from Professor Terrec's chillingly serene tone - is grating today, and I have trouble focusing on it, but can't concentrate on anything else. I should be using the time to work on my speech, but I'm too distracted to get through more than a sentence or two. I even try to write out cue cards on cut up bits of paper during lunch, but my hands shake so much that I can't hold them up without dropping them and getting them out of order.

By the time class is finished for the afternoon, I feel like a wreck. I'm light headed and shaky from not eating anything but coffee all day. Even Ahmed, whose presence I usually find a calming one, irritates me whenever he tells me to relax, that everything will be all right. "Nothing's ever 'all right,'" I snap. He leaves me alone after that.

I get to the auditorium early, still feeling paranoid from my dreams the night before. The entire student body of Iris Academy feels restless around me - whispers, shifting chairs, students getting up or sitting down when their class finishes or begins their set of speeches. All of the speeches are similar - bright, banal extollations of Iris Academy school spirit, the wholesome fun in store for the coming year. I'm so sick of them that Suki's speech, which promises equal rights for all monsters and a promise to crush the enemies of her political allies, is a refreshing change. I applaud it a little too loudly, which earns me a sharp look from a pair of junior boys who'd stayed to watch the rest of the speeches.

Minnie, as the incumbent, gives her speech after Suki's, and while her speech is similar to the ones that came before, I note that it's noticeably better written and more interesting than the others. Jacob is next, and his speech lacks much of the smarmy bravado that I think lost him the last election - Minnie's influence, I suspect. His political opponent, Manuel Arias, is so soft-spoken and nervous that it's tough to hear his speech over the rustle of the crowd.

Pastel is next. She punctuates her speech with a good deal of hair tossing, wing fluttering and her dazzling smile. Still, it isn't as though Pastel is all show and no substance - as I listen to her, even I have to admit that her speech is effective. She talks about bringing a "fresh breeze" into the school year, doing away with secrecy and pretense and increasing transparency in student council operations. It gives me an uncomfortable feeling, listening to Pastel extol openness and honesty, a reminder that I've been engaging in obfuscation ever since my unexpected marriage. Maybe I'm still paranoid, but the speech seems almost like a pointed rebuke directed right at me.

I stand halfway through Pastel's speech in order to position myself by the stage steps. It might be just my imagination, but I feel the eyes of Pastel - and most of the other students assembled - upon me as I try to make my way to the stage as discreetly as possible.

Pastel finishes with a little curtsy, and I hear Laurel, who's acting as the emcee for the whole assembly, announce my name. I take a deep breath and ascend the stairs, making the short walk to the podium. Once I'm on the stage, I feel acutely aware that I don't make nearly as great an impression as Pastel, visually. The eyes of the gathered students seem to be assessing me critically, finding that I don't measure up.

"Hello," I say into the microphone. The word comes out in a harsh whisper for the "he" and too loud on the "llo." I clear my throat. "Hello," I say, "everyone. I'm Eliza Moon."

The crowd continues to shift in front of me, still restless, undulating like the leaves on the trees during my run this morning.

"I guess I don't really need to introduce myself," I say, "but for those of you who don't know me, I'm a sophomore. I'm in Horse Hall. I'm wildseed. I'm - I'm married. And I'm running for treasurer this year."

The rustle of the students doesn't abate, but they do seem more curious. Several pairs of eyes rise to look at me, and, suddenly frightened, I have to close my own. My heart's pounding in my chest, my breath coming in shallow and rapid.

_Coward_, I think. _What would_ _Hieronymous_ _think if he were here?_

My eyes fly open, and I can see him - Hieronymous - waiting for me at the back of the auditorium, by the double doors that lead to the hall. He's there but not there, back in his old professor's uniform, cape and hat, arms crossed in front of his chest, scowling in that familiar irritated way. In my mind's eye, he raises an eyebrow at me. _ Well? Get on with it._

"I served last year's freshman class as treasurer," I say, my voice gaining strength with each word. "And I learned so much. Not just about how to run a class's finances, but about the traditions of this culture - to which I still feel very new."

I'm not sure whether it's my imagination, but it seems that the buzz in the auditorium has quieted.

"I think that our traditions are incredibly important, and that the student council plays a vital role in ensuring their continuance by making sure the requisite funds are available," I say. "I helped to make sure that this happened last year, and if you vote for me, I'll do the same in the year to come."

The buzz gets louder - I'm losing them. The imaginary Grabiner at the back of the room tilts his head at me, and lets out an audible breath through his nose. _Get to the point._

"But I'm not actually here to ask you to vote for me for sophomore class treasurer," I blurt. It comes out too loud, but by this time, I don't care. At least it has the effect of quieting the room.

"I'm here to ask you a question," I continue. "Are you scared?"

Now I have them. The room doesn't just go quiet, it goes silent.

"Because_ I'm_ scared," I say. "When I first came to Iris, I wasn't scared. I thought being able to do magic basically meant that I'd be able to do whatever I wanted. Within reason, yes, I knew there would be rules. But I didn't realize that becoming a witch meant entering a life that's ruled entirely by fear."

My palms are now sweating so badly that they slide on the podium as I speak, and I have to resist the urge to wipe them on the skirt of my uniform. The imaginary Grabiner by the double doors nods, both in approval and expectation. Remembering a conversation we'd had last spring, I go on.

"The council makes the rules," I say, "and the teachers terrify us into following them. If we break the rules, we get punished, and if the transgression's bad enough, they take our magic away. You've seen it happen. To your classmates; to your friends." I pause, to let this sink in. "Maybe for someone like me, a wildseed, you think it's not so bad. You go back to your family, to your life before. It's just your whole future taken away, that's all. But if you're born magic, they take _everything_. Your past. Your future. Your family. Your whole community. And the worst part about all of this is they don't even give us the courtesy of telling us _why_. Why the rules are so important - why it's worth taking someone's entire self away, just to make sure that everyone follows the rules. They just expect us to obey them without question. Don't you think that's a little - a little bit fascist?"

No one answers. Everyone in the audience is staring at me.

"So, what do we do about it?" I say, trying to ignore the squirming nausea trying to snake its way from my stomach into my throat. "I don't know."

A murmur in the crowd then, but I can't tell whether it's favorable or hostile to my speech.

"I don't know what to do," I repeat. "But I know what I'm _not_ going to do. I'm not going to just sit down and shut up, keep my head down for the next three years, hoping no one notices me. I'm going to speak up when I see something that isn't right. I'm not going to wait around for someone else to take care of me - even if that _is_ supposed to be her - _their_ job."

I see my mind's-eye Hieronymous mouth twitch downward, but I'm too far gone to worry about how the Hieronymous who lives in my brain disapproves this section of my speech. Despite this sure sign that I am losing my mind in front of the entire Academy, I continue.

"So I wanna know if anyone here agrees with me," I say. "I'm not going to ask you to speak up if you don't want to right now. This is serious stuff, and you should take your time and think about it. But if you do think that if the way we students are being treated isn't fair? If you don't want to keep your head down? If you want answers about why we're treated this way? Vote for me."

Another restless rustle in the crowd.

"Ballots are anonymous and secret," I say, raising my voice over the sudden noise. "No one's going to know how you voted - not the teachers, not Professor Potsdam. But if I win, then I'll know that there's enough students out there who won't sit down and shut up - enough to maybe make some kind of change in our school. In our lives, really. And more importantly, you'll know, too."

The low ebb of nausea in my stomach suddenly rears up, and I think that if I don't get off of the stage soon, I'll likely throw up down the front of my uniform. I shut my eyes to deliver the last line of my speech.

"There's a lot of magic out there, waiting," I say. "Let's face it together."

I step back from the podium, open my eyes, and glance over the audience. They're all sitting still. No one applauds as I step down the stairs that lead from the stage. I don't even get the polite smattering of claps that Suki had - only silence.

The aisle leading to the double doors at the back of the auditorium suddenly feels like the longest stretch I've ever had to walk, yawning before me like I'm having some hideous fever dream. But then the Hieronymous in my imagination suddenly brings his hands up to chest level, and makes a quick, flicking motion with his fingers.

_Come here._

Suddenly, the aisle snaps back into its proper proportions and I'm walking it - quickly, easily, because now I have somewhere to go. I don't feel the eyes of the students crawling over my skin any more, and I don't notice the silence. I'm almost there. I reach out both hands to clasp his - but instead feel the smooth, cool metal of the door's opener bar under my fingers. I lean on it, and push my way out into the hall.

Ahmed's there, pacing, chewing on one ragged cuticle. When he hears the doors open, he looks up, startled.

"I couldn't watch - how'd it go?" he asks.

"I guess we'll find out," I say.

Ahmed and I are at the front of the line to cast our votes for the sophomore class. I end up voting what I think of as the "losers block" - Suki for president, Manuel for secretary, me for treasurer. I vote for Suki more out of loyalty than any assurance that she'll win - if she does, I think her presidency would be a disaster of Godzilla-like proportions. Still, if there's a chance she might crush my political enemies, I figure it's worth a shot.

Suki herself bounces over to Ahmed and me after voting, saying "I think that went really well, don't you?" I'm not sure what to say to her, so I just give her a nervous smile.

We make our way back into the auditorium, and I huddle in one of the seats, waiting for the freshman voting to be over, and trying not to catch anyone's eye. _So much for not keeping your head down_, I think, but I can't help trying to hide. By the time Professor Potsdam steps to the podium and begins to rattle off the senior and junior class office winners, I'm slouched halfway down my chair, holding my breath.

"And the sophomore class treasurer will be-" Professor Potsdam announces, her eyebrows raising under her wide-brimmed hat. "By an astonishingly wide margin - Eliza Moon!"

I don't actually process what Professor Potsdam's just said until Ahmed claps a hand on my shoulder. "You won!"

_I won!_

No one is applauding, but I didn't expect them to. Just the sudden, sheer relief of not being alone in my fears for the future surges through me, an electric current, warm and exhilarating.

"An 'astonishingly wide margin,'" marvels Ahmed. "You really got 'em."

I sit in a daze through Professor Potsdam's next announcements - Minnie and Jacob winning their respective positions. Under ordinary circumstances I'd be annoyed with getting stuck with the two of them hanging all over each other all year, but I'm too overwhelmed by my own victory.

"And now," Professor Potsdam says, "the freshman class treasurer will be-" she cuts off, and brings the card she's reading closer to her face. Then she laughs, a ringing giggle.

"I'm afraid we shall have to cast the vote for freshman class treasurer again," Professor Potsdam says. "And I must remind the freshmen that it is not permitted to write in a candidate from another class."

The implication of this slides around my brain like a slippery sliver of soap at the bottom of a bathtub, and it feels like a full minute before I really grasp it.

"_Sheez_," Ahmed breathes. "The freshmen must have voted for you, too!"

Professor Potsdam announces the freshman President, then walks off the stage and down the aisle to lead the freshmen in another treasurer vote. She pauses at my row, and beams at me.

"Congratulations, Eliza!" she says, then pauses, head tilted. "I do hope you know what you're doing." She sweeps off in a swirl of pink.

Both Ahmed and I sit still and silent as the rest of the students bustle out of the auditorium. Once it's nearly empty, Ahmed turns to me.

"So, uh," he says, "_do_ you know what you're doing?"

"No," I say.


	10. Chapter 10

I roll over in bed, hearing the crinkle of paper as I move, and sigh. The sheets of paper stuffed into my pillow aren't exactly conductive to sleep, but are necessary for my own peace of mind. I've gotten so paranoid about my roommates going through my things and finding my letters that I haven't just stuffed them into my pillowcase - I slit a hole in the pillow itself with my pocketknife, and slid the letters inside, among the polyfill stuffing. Not the best way to store letters flat, or for that matter, keep them somewhere I can easily pull them out again to read - but then again, I've found myself unwilling to re-read my husband's letters to me over the past few weeks. They're all the same - griping about the weather and the crowds, saying he's been busy without saying what, exactly, he's busy with. A few jokes about looking forward to our upcoming divorce which are meant to be light and witty, but which only make me feel depressed. All very friendly, all very polite, and all so impersonal that they make me want to scream.

And here, lying in the dark I see what's going to happen in the coming years, as though it were a film being projected on the back of my eyelids. The divorce, the not-a-date dinner afterward, the awkward small talk rehashing what he's already written to me in his letters, the growing silences over forkfuls of too-rich food. I'll pretend not to see the look of relief on Hieronymous's face when he finally drops me off at Iris before going back to England. The letters - I won't be able to _not_ write to him - but his letters will start getting shorter week by week, phrase by phrase. The time between letters will grow, first by days, then by weeks. And then there will be a letter I send to him that goes unanswered, and I won't be able to summon the courage to write again, to tell him he's forgotten me.

And even if I do the thing that now seems more impossible with every passing day, and get into Oxford, I'll have only just enough fortitude to write and tell him. And he'll respond kindly, invite me to coffee or lunch somewhere in Oxbridge. When we meet, something about him will have changed slightly - he'll have cut his hair or gained weight around his face. And he'll make some remark about how I've grown up, and I'll pretend to laugh. And when I get up to go, it'll be me with an expression of relief on my face, thinking _how funny, I used to think I was in love with him_.

This projection is so strong that for a moment I think I really am there, running across a street to get back to campus for an afternoon class, looking back with a mix of nostalgia and embarrassment, thinking of how I used to lie awake at night on my bunk, despairing about how he'd gradually forget about me. And then Virginia rolls over with a snort, and the illusion breaks, and I'm back in the present - my sadness still raw and uncushioned by time.

_If I had stayed there, it would be different_, I can't help thinking. _I could make him not want to get rid of me. That last night in England - he didn't kiss me like he wanted to be rid of me._

_No_, a more rebellious thought surfaces, _but he sure pushed you away like he did_.

I roll over again. Thinking like this is like tonguing a sore in my mouth - I know I shouldn't, that it will only make things worse. But I can't help it, all the same.

_Professor Terrec, think about Professor Terrec._

I don't want to think about Professor Terrec any more than I want to think about Hieronymous, but I'm going to have to sooner or later. Although I hadn't seen him in the auditorium on Friday, this certainly doesn't mean that he won't have heard about my speech and subsequent landslide victory. And I can't even begin to guess what he might do about it. Even though my election speech seemed - still seems - like the right thing to do, now that all the adrenaline has seeped away, it also strikes me as pretty stupid.

_Well whatever_, I think. _I'm supposed to be the brave one in this marriage, not the smart one._ The thought doesn't comfort me much.

Between my tossing back and forth in bed and my brain tossing back and forth between professors Grabiner and Terrec, I get what feels like no sleep at all. By the time I climb quietly from my bunk on Saturday morning, I feel haggard and bleary. I pull on a uniform in the dark and trudge down the hall to the mail room.

_Just get the mail out and then you can go on an extra long run_, I think, and the thought of a nice run in the crisp autumn air cheers me up. Maybe I can even wear myself out enough to take a nap later, get myself back to feeling human.

I unlock the mail room door and push it in - and then freeze. All thought of runs and naps fly out of my head. Professor Terrec is sitting at the mail room table, his hands folded before him.

_Waiting for me_, I think, a freezing gush of terror seeming to spill over me. _What's he going to do, expel me here and now, just like the girl who'd had the mp3 player?_

And then it hits me - _no, not like her_. Because he'd expelled her in front of a crowd of freshmen, to teach them a lesson. And for my own, very public transgression, he won't be content with a private expulsion. He'll want to do whatever he's going to do to me in front of a crowd - maybe the entire school. So whatever he's planning, it won't happen in an empty room at five in the morning - at least, I hope it won't.

So I screw up my courage and walk calmly into the room, pulling up a chair to the table at which Professor Terrec is sitting. He raises his eyebrows slightly at this, and I belatedly realize that I probably ought to have waited until he invited me to sit. Oh well - I'd never been that good about etiquette, anyway.

Only when I am seated I say "Good morning, Professor Terrec."

"Good morning... Miss Moon," Professor Terrec says in his not-quite-an-accent. "I came to congratulate you on your victory."

"Thank you," I say, as calmly and evenly as I'm able, waiting for the inevitable 'but.' Professor Terrec draws the pause out, sucking his teeth a little.

"I must say," he finally says, "that I hadn't expected such cynicism in one so young."

This throws me. "What do you mean?" I ask, throwing in a "sir," just in time.

He blinks at me serenely, in no hurry to answer. I have to force myself from squirming under his indigo eyes. They seem so bright that I wonder if they're dyed contacts - or possibly a sign of some enormous magical power. They're also - I can't help thinking - incredibly beautiful. If Professor Terrec hadn't been such a fascist creep, and if I hadn't been married, I might have been swooning over him as badly as Pastel.

"Playing on the fears of your fellow students to win a class office," he says. "You are, of course, permitted to use any election tactic you please, although that does strike me as being in rather poor taste."

I'm momentarily too stunned to speak. Does he think I just made that whole speech, just to win the election? And then I realize - no, he doesn't think that. But he's giving me the chance to take it back. To say I didn't mean it.

"I'm afraid you're mistaken," I say, as clearly as I can. "I meant every word of that speech."

"Ah," Professor Terrec replies, not even bothering to act surprised. To my immense relief, he turns the force of his gaze from me, and stares off into space, his features taking on that dreamy, unfocused look. He sits still, staring into space for so long that I begin to wonder whether he's forgotten that I'm here.

Finally, he speaks again. "A child," he says, "does not understand why e mustn't play with knives. And when es mother takes them away from em, e believes that she is being cruel. Do you understand?"

"Yeah," I say, "but that analogy's... inapt," I retort, using one of my dad's legal words and hoping that it means what I think it means. "A good mother teaches the child that knives are sharp, and teaches em how to use them when e's older. She doesn't just throw em out on the street if e makes a mistake. And anyway, we're not babies."

The look Professor Terrec gives me then mixes bemusement with pity with distaste, as though he were looking at some scruffy, flea-bitten primate trying to do something reserved for humans - smoking a cigarette, maybe, imitating the motions of the smokers around it, lacking the intelligence to understand that it doesn't belong. A phrase pops into my head - _it thinks it's people_.

"But you are," Professor Terrec softly. "You, in particular, are."

I bristle at this condescension. "Why?" I ask. "Just because I'm wildseed?"

Professor Terc doesn't seem to register the sharpness in my voice - his face remains serene as he says "of course."

I'm so aghast at this answer that I start to splutter. "But - that's - that's not-"

Professor Terrec continues to stare at me, and I find myself unable to finish the phrase, instead sputtering into silence.

Professor Terrec's mouth turns up at the corners. "Were you going to say _fair_?" he asks. "And you were insisting that you're not a baby." He gives a dry chuckle, and I feel my face heating to what must be a furious shade of red.

"Well it _isn't_ fair," I snap. "You don't get to treat me differently from anyone else just because I'm wildseed. I deserve the same education-"

"You _deserve_," Professor Terrec interrupts, tenting his fingers under his chin. "I find that such a fascinating concept. You children - you wildseeds, I should say, especially those native to this country - are always going on about what they _deserve_. As though it wasn't enough that you were born in a time and place where you would not be burned at the stake for being what you are."

"My country never burned witches at the stake," I snap. "They were hanged. Or pressed."

"Forgive me for failing to make the distinction," Professor Terrec says, a smirk playing on his features. "Mine did."

Given his name, I suppose he must mean France, which I suppose makes sense, considering his accent. Before I can think to say anything about this, he continues. "The manner of death notwithstanding, wildseeds have never been particularly valued. In fact, until the early twentieth century, your kind were not permitted to be taught magic at all."

I had no idea that this was the case, and I stare back at Professor Terrec in wondering shock. I want to call him a liar, but somehow I can't bring myself to say the words. Instead I ask, in a near whisper, "why not?"

"It was considered far too dangerous," Professor Terrec says in a matter-of-fact tone. "And, in fact, a little cruel. To take children from their families only to drop them into a world they don't understand, then watch them struggle to adapt. Even if they make a success of it - and many do not - they can never return to their families again. Terribly tragic." He throws the last phrase out as though he were tossing it over his shoulder. "They simply do not have the background to flourish in our world. Better to leave them where they are, poor things."

My fury at being referred to - even obliquely - as a "poor thing" makes me forget to be wary. "Don't you think I ought to be the one to make that choice?" I snap, forgetting to append my sentence with a "sir."

"How can I expect you to make a choice," Professor Terrec responds, "when you know nothing about this world, and understand nothing about this culture?"

"So teach us," I say.

"Why should I?" Professor Terrec replies, and the flippant way he says it stuns me into silence. I gape at him, mouth open, and probably looking ridiculous.

Professor Terrec leans forward, arms on the table to the elbows, his long, tapered fingers stretching in my direction. "Why should I waste my time on a wildseed who doesn't understand the gift e possesses - who runs toward danger instead of prudently running away? One who will likely get emself killed before another year goes by?"

_It's just like what Hieronymous said about me on the first day we met_, I think, chilly all over. But I steel myself, and then hiss through my teeth, "because it's your _job_."

For a fleeting moment, I think I've won the argument, but Professor Terrec only leans back again, a satisfied smirk on his face. "On that score," he says, "I'm afraid you may have been misinformed."

"So - what," I say, my anger overcoming any semblance of caution I may have felt. "You're here to expel us? Do the merciful thing? Put us out of our misery? No thanks."

Profesor Terrec's smirk dies a little bit at the corners. "I'm quite surprised to hear the wife of the seventeenth Lord Montague speaking to me in such a fashion," he says. "I have been made aware that your marriage took place under unusual circumstances, but surely he has made you aware that as the wife of such an illustrious personage, you have certain appearances to uphold?"

For a moment, I'm too stunned to respond. Does he mean etiquette? My vows of kindness and courage? "I don't know what you mean," I say at last.

Now Professor Terrec has stopped smiling altogether, and is looking at me with an intense curiosity. "What I mean, _Lady Montague_, is your obedience to your husband's orders. Surely Lord Montague cannot have required you to make such a spectacle of yourself yesterday afternoon."

"I don't have to be obedient!" I say hotly. "I keep my independence, even if we are married! He told me so!"

"And he has retained this view throughout your entire marriage?" Professor Terrec asks.

"I don't see how that's any of your business," I say, "but yes."

Professor Terrec's hands rise in front of him, a quick, unconscious gesture, and I brace myself, thinking he's going to cast a spell on me. But instead, he freezes, hands paused in mid-air, eyes narrowing. Slowly, very slowly, he lowers his hands to the table.

"I see," he says. "In that case, it is not for me to interfere with the terms of your marriage. My duties, happily, lie elsewhere."

Before I can ask him what he means by this, Professor Terrec changes the subject. "Though I do have a duty to fulfill today, which is to inform you about your next task for the sophomore class - preparation for the Dark Dance this month."

"Why?" I ask. "Don't we just do incense?"

Professor Terrec gives me that bemused, pitying look again, and I realize my mistake. The _freshmen_ do the incense - now that we're sophomores, we're probably in charge of something else.

"No," Professor Terrec says. "The sophomore class is in charge of decor."

I'm so irritated at myself for making the slip, I forget again to be polite. "Why?" I ask again. "There's no reason to decorate - it's _dark_."

Professor Terrec stands in one fluid motion and begins to walk to the door. "If you are so insistent that you can understand my culture," he says, "perhaps you can determine this for yourself. Good morning." The door clicks behind him, and Professor Terrec is gone.

I find myself unable to sit still. I jump up from the seat and grab a double handful of mail, trying to ignore my own hands shaking as I sort it on the table. My brain can't quite seem to grasp the import of the conversation - was it some kind of warning? But why bother warning me? If he wants to expel me, why doesn't he just do it? Professor Potsdam already told me there was nothing she could do to stop him.

I grab another double handful of mail. The envelopes slide through my fingers, the papers rasping against each other. During my sorting, I unearth a thick blue envelope addressed to Ahmed - Damien I bet, it's the same flowing handwriting, and no return address. I continue to sort the mail, but find no envelopes that respond to my touch - nothing from Hieronymous this week. I bury my disappointment in work, but my thoughts keep straying to the blue envelope. Once I'm finished with the rest of the mail, I pause at the Toad Hall pile, and pick Damien's letter to Ahmed up again. What must it be like to have a boyfriend who wrote you long, thick, heavy letters like that? If I had made another choice, if I'd told Damien we could be friends a year ago, would I have found out?

_Or would it have been me bleeding on the floor of the gym?_

I drop the blue envelope onto the stack for Toad Hall in a hurry._ God_, I think, _why can't Ahmed and I just have normal boyfriends? That would be nice. We could go on double dates to the mall or maybe the Glen if we saved up our allowance. We could be laughing right now about whether we'd get asked to the Dark Dance, not fielding threats from the professors._

Of course, the Dark Dance has its own problems - I'm still inwardly cringing at my mistake about the incense, about the look of bemused pity and distaste Professor Terrec had given me.

_If you're so insistent that you can understand my culture_, he'd said. Well, fine, I decide. I can become Iris Academy's foremost expert on the Dark Dance - I have a few weeks after all. And maybe this will help me get going on my ambition to study history. You can't just read textbooks and become an historian, I decide. You have to have _goals_.

Cheered by this thought, I'm halfway to the door with my first pile of mail for delivery when I realize I've forgotten to sort out the allowances - which I usually do first thing.

_When am I going to start doing things right for a change?_ I think, and with a sigh, sit back down at the mail table.


	11. Chapter 11

After sorting the allowances, delivering the mail, and rewarding myself with my extra-long run and a shower after, it's late enough to be lunch time. I don't seek out Ahmed or sit at my usual table, but dash into the cafeteria just long enough to grab a peanut butter and banana sandwich and stuff it into my pocket. Then I race to the library so I can get there while everyone else is still eating.

I make it - the library is nearly deserted by the time I get in. I notice that Minnie has staked out her usual center table with a pile of books on all aspects of the pentachromatic system of magic - her tutoring sessions must be in full swing.

I find a table in a back corner, slightly hidden by a protruding bookshelf, put my shoulder bag into a chair, and then dash to the history textbook shelf. I pull all the books I can carry, then deposit them on my table, spreading them out in the hope that I'll take up so much room, no one will try to sit with me.

_Okay_, I think to myself, flipping book after book to their indices, _Dark Dance, Dark Dance._ I pull the first book in which the phrase appears closer to me, flip to the section, and start to read.

_The Dark Dance is an ancient custom among magical humans, marking the day of the year when the veil between our world and the Otherworld grows thinnest, allowing for freer passage._

Okay, I know that much already. I keep reading.

_In Western Europe and the Americas, the practice is most closely related to the Celtic festival of Samhain. The festival marks not only the closeness of the Otherworld, but the close of the year and the start of winter. The Dark Dance was held as a communion with the spirits of the Otherworld, and as a means of asking those spirits for their help in surviving the coming months._

_In modern times, humans need less assistance during the winter months, and the Dark Dance has thus become more symbolic than practical. Invitations to the creatures of the Otherworld are issued to benign spirits only, rather than the open invitation that might attract more powerful, and more dangerous beings. Such beings could be very helpful in assisting a community to survive through the cold of winter, but the sacrifices they required in exchange - both animal and human - were costly._

This stops me cold. _Human sacrifice?_ That can't be right at all. I don't remember taking part in any kind of sacrificial ritual, even a symbolic one, during last year's Dark Dance. And anyway, even I know that tales of human sacrifice in the non-magical world were usually false - written to shock, to titillate, to convince the members of an imperialist culture that they had the right to control others, because those others were so primitive, so barbarous. And talk of human sacrifice does not jibe with Professor Potsdam's sunshine-and-light-and-informed-consent presentation of the magical world.

I flip to the title page of the book - _Magical Culture and Practice_. It was written in 1956. Sort of old-timey I guess, but it still seems pretty late to be talking about human sacrifice in a serious fashion. I shove the book away and reach for another.

It takes me six books before I come across even a vague explanation of the sacrifices the first book mentioned. The others have general descriptions about the Dark Dance, and while they give me some good ideas for what the decorations should be - forest glens, thick foliage, preferably evergreen trees nearby - they don't clarify what the first book meant by human sacrifices. The closest they come is describing offerings - sweets, cuts of meat, pastries - left in a shadowy corner of the grove for hungry Otherworld creatures to enjoy in solitude.

The seventh book is smaller than the other history textbooks - I'd grabbed it as an afterthought only because it was small enough that it could be carried at the top of my precarious pile without falling. There's no title on the cover, the spine is cracked and frayed, and the corners are mushy with age. The frontispiece reads _Traditions of Witcherie_, and reveals that it was printed in 1912. Based on the odd terms and spelling, it seems like it was written before the 20th century, but if it was, I can't find the date. It 's also far more disorganized than the other books. There are no chapter headings, no sections, no questions for reading comprehension at the end. There's only a constantly rambling wall of text, full of archaic vocabulary.

Despite the book's eccentricities - or perhaps because of them - I find myself completely absorbed in the book after only a few minutes. Reading it is like following a meandering path through a densely wooded forest, coming across strange little clearings full of unusual sights. There are descriptions of odd creatures, instructions for manufacturing little protective amulets, and recommendations for alternate hand positions for certain thumb-cracking spells I've never heard of. There's even a potion recipe titled _For Deepeſt Paſſion_, and though I consider love spells to be cheating, I can't help but examine it more closely. To my disappointment, however, the recipe is long and complicated, involving the body parts of creatures I didn't know existed, and requiring extended periods of time for steeping, macerating, and distilling at various stages. It might, I consider, flipping the page, be easier to just fall in love with someone on your own, even if I'm not quite sure how one accomplishes that yet.

When I find the section on the Dark Dance, I nearly flip past it. In this book, it's called the "Foreſt Danſe," but a quick glance at the description reveals that the two are certainly the same ritual. _Held at the threſhehold of Winter, when the Borders between Worlds grow thinne..._ Yes - definitely the Dark Dance. I keep reading.

_The Danſe ſhall be held in deepeſt Forest Glenn at dusk and continue til dawn breaks. Great care must be taeken to ensure that only faintest ſtarlyte and moonlyte enter the Glenn leſt any ſpirits be ſeen by the eyes of mortal men. Still greater care must be tayken to enſure that only benevolent ſpirits be preſent for the Danſe. There are ſome in the habit of using the Danſe as a means of ſtealing away ſome young perſonne to ſerve them as bride or bride-groom in the Otherlands._

I pause over this section, considering. Could this be the human sacrifice the other book was talking about? Not killing some innocent in the name of gaining the spirits' favor, like in a Greek tragedy or a B movie, but offering someone up as an eligible marriage partner. It might make sense in an era when marriages were seen largely as business contracts in which a whole family's well being was involved.

_Kind of like how my marriage is a business contract_, I think. _I bargained for protection from the nasty manus, and Hieronymous got to take care of an imbicilic 17 year old who runs towards danger instead of away from it. He certainly got the raw end of _that_ deal._

This thought is too depressing to contemplate further, so I focus back on finishing the paragraph in my book.

_Those not wiſhing to be abducted ſhould tayke the precautionne of pinning a ſprigg of Hawthorne-leaves to their perſonne._

I snort a little at the thought of trusting a bunch of leaves to protect one against potential kidnapping by spirits. The book doesn't provide any explanation of why the creatures of the Otherworld would be adverse to hawthorn leaves, but continues its meandering to another subject.

I sigh, glance up at the clock - and realize that it's nearly three in the afternoon. I'd told myself last week that I had better finish up my essay prompt in green magic by tonight so I could get started on our big white magic project - a class demonstration on using white spells to see through obstacles, sort of like setting up our own miniature exams for the rest of the class to solve. Technically the project isn't due until the end of term, but I think Ellen has already got a head start on hers, and I'm still determined to follow her academic lead, even if we aren't exactly speaking to each other just now.

So I bundle up my borrowed books to shove them back on their shelf - all of them, that is, except for the little gray book. I scoop that one up once the others are put away, and head to the main desk.

Mr. Underberg, the weekend librarian, is manning the desk behind his bristly brush of ginger beard. He's young - can't be much more than twenty-five in my estimation - and has an impressive collection of decidedly non-magical comic books stashed in his messenger bag, which he reads when he thinks no one is looking. As I approach the desk, he stuffs a copy of _Fionna and Cake_ into one of the drawers, and picks up a hefty volume titled _Advanced Practical Black Magic_.

"Hi Mr. Underberg, can I check this out please?" I say, putting the book on the desk.

"Hey... you," Mr. Underberg replies. He's evidently forgotten my name, or never bothered to learn it in the first place, even though I'm here practically every weekend. He picks up the book, and flips to the back. Then he flips to the front again. "How old is this thing?" he asks, a sudden sharpness taking over his normally vague expression.

"Oh! Uh. Nineteen-twelve," I reply, putting on what I hope is an innocent expression. _Well it's true, isn't it?_ I think, wondering why I feel so defensive all of the sudden.

Mr. Underberg gives me a suspicious glance, then turns to the book's frontispiece. The date on the page seems to satisfy him, however, and he flips to the back of the book again.

"Okay," he says, "due back on..." a date appears on the back card - "November fifth." He closes the back cover, but instead of handing me the book, he places one meaty hand on its cover. I stare at it for a moment, marveling at the orangish hair that springs from his knuckles before looking back up at him.

"So, uh," Mr. Underberg says, "you'll let me know if you see any books that are older than, say, eighteen-ninety, right?"

"Sure," I say, and he hands me the book. I half turn before looking back and asking him "why?"

He shrugs. "Just the rules," he says.

Unexpectedly, I feel a sudden rage blossom in my chest. _Just the rules? _What the hell kind of answer is that? But instead of snapping at him, I take a deep breath and get my temper under control.

"Okay," I say, and walk off, letting Mr. Underberg get back to his comic.

I manage a decent draft of my green essay before my growling stomach reminds me that I've only eaten a sandwich all day. I get up, stretch, and head down the corridor to Toad Hall to see if Ahmed wants to get some food.

When I knock on Ahmed's door, though, his roommate Orrin is the one who opens it. He's a large, taciturn boy, who by my count hasn't said more than five words to me at a time. He grunts in a sort of greeting.

"Hey, Ahmed here?" I ask, affecting nonchalance.

"Haven't seen'm since we got up," Orrin replies.

Six whole words - possibly seven if you count the mumbled contraction. A new record.

"Oh, well, can you tell him I went to get dinner?" I ask.

Orrin grunts his reply.

"Thanks," I say, as brightly as I can. But as I turn away, Orrin - to my surprise - speaks up again.

"You c'n wait in here if you want," he says, opening the door wider. The room wafts the goatish smell of indifferently washed teenage boy bed sheets into the hall. I force a smile.

"No thanks!" I say. "Bye!" And I dash down the hall to the cafeteria, where my remaining dinner companion and her plastic Godzilla are waiting.

Ahmed shows up about halfway through dinner, and sits without getting himself a tray of food. "Hey," he says, not quite looking me in the eye. "Sorry I missed lunch."

"Oh, that's okay, I missed lunch too," I say. Ahmed looks a little startled at this, and oddly, a little disappointed. "Don't worry, I would totally have missed you if I'd been there," I say.

Ahmed gives a dry little laugh, but doesn't say anything. I turn to peer at him a little more closely. His eyes aren't exactly red, but they're puffy and tired-looking.

"Everything okay?" I ask.

"Fine," Ahmed answers, a little too quickly for everything to actually be fine.

"Family or boys?" I persist.

Ahmed sighs. "A little of both. I really don't want to talk about it."

"Okay," I say, deciding that he really means it. "So I'm starting prep for the Dark Dance this month. You wanna go with me as my friend-date?"

At this, Ahmed starts as though I've just touched him with the business end of a cattle prod. "No!" he says.

"Jeez, you could try for polite rejection at least," I say, trying to sound only play-offended and not entirely succeeding.

"You know that's not what I meant," says Ahmed, a bit of a snap in his voice. "I just don't like the Dark Dance. It's too crowded."

"It's not that bad," I insist. "And I'll totally body-check anyone that gets too close to you, okay?"

But Ahmed shakes his head. "I have plans that night anyway."

"With whom?" I ask. "Everyone here is going to the dance!"

"You should take Orrin," Ahmed says. "He was all a-twitter about you coming to our room before dinner. I think he has a crush on you."

I snicker at the thought of large, stoic Orrin being a-twitter about anything. "He does know I'm a married woman, right?" I say.

"I think that's part of the appeal," says Ahmed. "The untouchable married woman, up on her pedestal? Very courtly love."

"I'll skip the pedestal, thanks," I mutter.

"Actually he's been talking about you nonstop since yesterday afternoon," Ahmed continues, "asking if you're going to do something crazy like challenge Professor Terrec to a duel or something. Have you figured it out yet, though? What you're going to do?" Now both Ahmed and Suki are looking at me with interest.

_Nice change of subject_, I think, but Ahmed's right - I've spoken my piece in front of the whole school, and now it's time for action. The trouble is, between Professor Terrec this morning, and planning the Dark Dance and doing homework in the afternoon, I haven't thought of any follow up to my speech.

"Well," I start, "unless Suki's figured out how to make Chester Godzilla-sized..."

Suki sighs. "Another failed attempt last night," she says. "The spell to give him wings worked, though!" she holds up her pen, and sure enough, Chester is now sporting a pair of green, bat-like wings that seem to flutter delicately in the air wafting from the cafeteria ventilation system.

"Huh..." is all I can manage, but Ahmed at least has the presence of mind to say "Looking good, Chester!" Suki beams at him.

"But yeah, other than that, I've got nothing," I admit.

"Well you better think of something," warns Ahmed. "Otherwise everyone's going to think you're all talk."

"Yeah, well, you're my campaign manager, you think of something," I grouse.

"The campaign's over," says Ahmed, "and I did _not_ sign up to lead a student revolt. That was you."

I can't argue with that, so instead I stick a forkful of meatloaf into my mouth and start chewing. Ahmed helps himself to my bread roll, looking like whatever was bothering him before dinner has passed on.

But I'm not quite so eager to forget. There's something about Ahmed's mood at the start of the evening that bothers me, and as I'm finishing up my meatloaf, I realize what it is. It's that Ahmed's mood coincided with the morning appearance if that extra-thick blue envelope with the flowing handwriting and no forwarding address.

After we finish dinner, I make sure that Suki falls behind as Ahmed and I leave the cafeteria. "Let's take a walk, yeah?" I ask, pointing to the double doors leading to the courtyard.

Ahmed shrugs. "Sure," he replies, and we walk outside.

Only last month, students would have been crowding the courtyard after dinner, enjoying the last rays of light and the lingering late summer warmth. Tonight, though, a chilly breeze is whipping its way through trees that are beginning to show their colors, and we have the courtyard mostly to ourselves.

I don't quite know how to begin to ask what I think I have to ask, so I decide to just spit it out. "Listen," I say, "you're not going to sneak out to see Damien during the Dark Dance, are you?"

Ahmed turns to me, his face suddenly closed off, his eyes narrowed and suspicious. "Why?" he asks.

"I just saw he wrote you and you seemed kind of..." I start, but trail off, unsure of how to continue.

"Well what if I am?" Ahmed snaps. "It's none of your business."

_But he hurt you!_ I want to scream, but I bite the words back. After all, saying that out loud would be a one-way ticket to the land of Ahmed never speaking to me again, and I've lost too many friends this year already.

"I just don't think it's a good idea," I stammer. "I mean, he got expelled so you could get in trouble for sneaking out to see him, right? And with Professor Terrec around, he might, you know, expel you too. Or something."

Ahmed scoffs. "Thanks," he says, "but that'd be a little more convincing coming from someone who, you know, didn't just call Professor Terrec out in front of the entire school?"

"That's not the same thing!" I reply, bristling. "I _had_ to do that. But there's a difference - I'm trying to keep everyone safe! It isn't worth getting expelled just to, like, hang out with your boyfriend!"

If I'd hoped to convince Ahmed with this argument, I had sorely miscalculated. He whirls on me with a furious look on his face that I've never seen him make. I take a little involuntary step back into a bed of posies, the heel of my shoe sinking in the soft soil.

"Don't act like you're so high and mighty!" he shouts, "and don't pretend that you know_ anything_ about me and Damien! Nobody here knows anything about it except for him and me, so you need to just stay out of it!"

"Just promise you won't sneak out, okay?" I say, pressing my advantage.

"_God_," scoffs Ahmed."You know you sound like Max, right? During our final? Asking me never to talk to Damien again or he couldn't be friends with me any more? I already got kicked out of my hall, Eliza, I'm not sure what you think you're going to accomplish."

"_Please_," I say, half ashamed of the pleading note that enters my voice when I say it. I know that I can't win, but I have to at least try. "You don't have to promise, just say you won't sneak out, and I won't say anything else about Damien unless you bring him up, okay? Please."

I brace myself for Ahmed's reaction, but, to my shock, he just shrugs.

"Okay," he says in a flat, emotionless voice. "I'm not gonna sneak out. I _promise_. Okay? Are you happy now?"

He doesn't wait for me to answer before turning on his heel and stalking off in the direction of Toad Hall.

I remain in the courtyard thinking that actually, no, I'm not happy. What I am is relieved, and also a little scared. What if Ahmed doesn't sneak out, but does decide that he isn't going to speak to me any more? He's my only real friend at Iris Academy, I realize, with all the crushing loneliness that comes along with the thought. And without him, I don't know what I'm going to do about Professor Terrec, school, my husband - any of it.

I trudge toward Horse Hall, prepared for a sleepless night and an anxious morning.

But, to my surprise, Ahmed shows up at my door on Sunday morning for breakfast without mentioning our fight the night before, and acting as though our argument had never taken place at all. As we make our way to the cafeteria, chatting about classes and homework, my anxiety changes to caution, then to optimism, and finally to cheer. _No matter what dumb things I say, Ahmed's not going to leave me the way everyone else has_, I think. _And I won't have to get through this term all alone_.


End file.
